


Venus in Vibranium

by betts



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Origin Story, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Anal Plug, Angst, Aromantic Natasha Romanov, BDSM, Background Relationships, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bottom Bucky, Brat Bucky, Comeplay, Cunnilingus, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub, Domestic Avengers, Double Penetration, Edgeplay, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, Exhibitionism, F/M, Face Slapping, Frottage, Hair-pulling, Hero Worship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Panty Kink, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Public Sex, Punishment, Sex Work, Sexting, Slow Burn, Spanking, Spit As Lube, Sub Bucky Barnes, Switch Natasha Romanov, Threesome - F/M/M, Top Steve Rogers, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voluntary Servitude, Voyeurism, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-04-07 09:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 58,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4258737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“To be a Lead’s Support is a substantial responsibility," Natasha says. "You must be Agent Rogers’ personal assistant, bodyguard, chef, maid, best friend, boyfriend, and whatever else he wishes you to be.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note that the only romantic pairing in this fic is Steve/Bucky. Peggy/Angie are a background ship. Natasha is involved with both Steve and Bucky but she's aro.
> 
> This fic contains BDSM as a plot device and as such, is not the most healthy portrayal of D/s dynamics.
> 
> Beta'd by my favorite humans [B&E](http://www.bert-and-ernie-are-gay.tumblr.com) and [shiphitsthefan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan).

_I can easily imagine belonging to one man for my entire life, but he would have to be a whole man, a man who would dominate me, who would subjugate me by his innate strength...The only man whom I could love permanently would be he before whom I should have to kneel._

― Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, _Venus in Furs_

* * *

It turns out to be a sex thing.

Bucky should have guessed, really. Receiving a state-of-the-art bionic arm and living large in the SHIELD Tower post-tour was obviously too good to be true. And here’s the other shoe dropping, plain as day, on his stack of paperwork the size of the Oxford English Dictionary:

_Sexual encounters to be determined by Lead with guidelines pre-determined by Support. Should Lead break Support’s written guidelines, the contract shall be terminated. See Exhibit E for Support’s written guidelines. Guidelines subject to change per written acknowledgment of both Support and Company. See Addendum 18.5 for additional clauses._

Bucky takes a deep breath. The whole situation is unreal, and he forgets momentarily all the strange circumstances that led him to a skyrise conference room overlooking Washington DC, flipping through an enormous binder to get to Exhibit E, whereupon a long form is asking him to spell out his sexual preferences.

It’s about the least sexy thing he’s ever done, including the time he gave a drunk striptease to Sam Wilson, who ended up laughing so hard that they both toppled off the bed.

The form is relatively easy. He marks a checkbox that appears to be some kind of liability jargon which should probably intimidate him, but he’s faced death more times than he can count, so he doesn’t have much to be afraid of anymore. He lists that he’s bisexual without hesitation, but his hand hovers on the next question, which is asking him either to provide a safeword or default-opt to something called _Red/Yellow/Green_. The question points to a footnote in Appendix K, which he flips to in order to find that yes, a safeword is exactly what he thinks it is, and so is _Red/Yellow/Green_.

He begins to wonder if this whole ordeal is even worth it, what would happen if he took the arm and ran. The first page he signed was an agreement to a year of employment with SHIELD as an Agent’s “Support,” whatever that meant, and the price tag on his service would be enough to last him years. When his year is up, he’ll be smooth sailing for a long damn time.

But now that he’s looking at the extent of his new job duties, which apparently include the sexual gratification of his Lead, he’s hesitating for the first time since Director Fury approached him two months ago.

It would make him a sort of sex worker now, he supposes. His gut instinct tells him he’s too good for that, that he shouldn’t lower himself to such standards. He’s a decorated veteran, after all, not a whore. Then a smaller, quieter voice inside him responds that there is nothing morally wrong with sex work between consenting adults, and to look down on it is to disrespect sex workers as a whole.

So he defaults to RYG instead of a safeword that he’d probably forget by tomorrow anyway. He spends the next half hour specifying the remainder of his limitations, filing through every scenario in his head and also taking out his phone to research specific names for concepts he’d only vaguely been aware of. Bucky may have had a lot of sex in his life, but mostly of the hit-it-and-quit-it variety, so he never really ventured into anything beyond the basics.

Once he’s done with his brief yet disquieting research, he specifies that he is unwilling to engage in blood play, scat play, waterworks, sounding, and breath play (he’s been suffocated enough in his life, thanks). He feels slightly better knowing that he can add to this list as needed by filing an addendum request, but then feels worse when he realizes that nowhere does it ask for his actual preferences.

The lack of question is a startling reminder that this situation isn’t actually about him. Not that he’d expected it to be, but the whole arrangement leaves him feeling...powerless. He thought that would change when he got home from overseas, but it looks like he’s just trading in one person barking orders at him for another.

The door opens and Natasha enters. She’s wearing a crisp gray suit with a tablet in her hand, and takes a seat across from Bucky, who quickly flips off his phone, which still had the search results for  _erotic asphyxiation_  on the screen.

“Finished?” she asks with a smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes, and pulls the binder of paperwork toward herself before he can answer.

“Uhh,” Bucky says while she scans through the bookmarked signature pages, hand hovering over the one that is about to inform her that he bats for both teams and doesn’t do watersports. She gets to it and her expression doesn’t change, just sweeps over the page to make sure Bucky has crossed all his Is and dotted his Ts, initialed in the eight thousand spots highlighted in yellow, and signed and printed his name everywhere necessary.

“Looks good,” she says, and closes the binder. “Are you ready to see your new quarters?”

This is all happening so fast; it was only two weeks ago that Bucky severed his lease in Brooklyn and came out to DC, and now he’s about to move into the SHIELD Tower to be some secret agent’s personal...everything.

It’s only for a year, he reminds himself. He’s been through four years of hell. He can endure one more for the sake of a limb and a paycheck, so he replies, “Sure.”

Natasha stands from the table and talks while she leads Bucky out of the room and into a large glass elevator that gives Bucky vertigo. He stares at the ceiling to mitigate it.

“Upon review of your paperwork, I’m pairing you with Agent Rogers,” Natasha says.

 _Rogers_. Well, at least his Lead has a name. A name that sounds so familiar, Bucky's gut flips in his stomach.

“Wait,” Bucky says. “Steve Rogers? As in... _Captain America_ Steve Rogers?”

Without looking at him, Natasha replies, “Yes, Steve Rogers, but he's no longer Captain America, no. He retired two years ago and now works for SHIELD as a strategic consultant.”

 _Captain fucking America._ Bucky grew up reading the Captain America comic books and learning about him in high school history class. He even had a Captain America poster on his bedroom wall until the day he moved out. When Steve Rogers was unearthed from the ice over a decade ago, the world went apeshit, and he was one of the primary reasons Bucky enlisted in the first place. The guy was _literally_ Bucky’s hero.  

While Bucky stares at Natasha open-mouthed, she continues, “To be a Lead’s Support is a substantial responsibility. You must be Agent Rogers’ personal assistant, bodyguard, chef, maid, best friend, boyfriend, and whatever else he wishes you to be.”

The speech sounds recited, like Natasha has done this many times, and Bucky wonders how many Agents in the building have Support staff. He also wonders how many Supports Agent Rogers has been through alone. He can’t imagine it’s easy work, waiting on Captain America hand and foot.

“You must do whatever he asks you to do whenever he asks you to do it," Natasha says. "Your work schedule begins on Monday morning at seven a.m. and ends Saturday evening at eleven p.m. You have Sundays at your leisure. Agent Rogers may not need you at all hours, but within those timeframes you must be available to him should he require your assistance.”

The elevator doors open on a wide, sterile hallway, and Natasha’s heels click against the hardwood floors. “Agent Rogers has a rigid schedule unless otherwise noted on his calendar, which has been provided to you. You are to update and maintain his calendar going forward. Whether or not you attend events or meetings with Agent Rogers is up to his discretion.”

Natasha waves a badge in front of a door and it beeps. She opens it to reveal a spacious penthouse suite that makes Bucky’s jaw drop. The entire back wall is a window looking out over the city, higher up than Bucky has ever been in a building. He immediately wants to press his face against the glass, but he stifles the urge and blindly follows Natasha into the living area. It’s an open space that includes a stainless steel kitchen in one corner, a comfortable couch facing a fireplace, and a small dining room table in front of the window.

It doesn’t look like anyone actually lives here, though; it’s more like a model used in a catalog. There are no personal possessions lying around anywhere, no framed photographs or cluttered bookshelves or crocheted afghans. Just a lot of white, gray, and brown.

Natasha picks up a padfolio with a tablet in it from the kitchen counter and hands it to him. “This has all the information you need on Agent Rogers; his food preferences, living preferences, schedule, et cetera. He requires breakfast to be ready by eight a.m. and dinner by six p.m. You can submit his weekly grocery list using an app provided, and the groceries will be left by the door on Monday morning when you return from your day off.”

Before Bucky can even click on the tablet to determine what operating system it uses, Natasha is walking away. Bucky follows her and she stops in front of a door with an intricate-looking security clearance on the knob. “This is Agent Rogers’ private quarters. Under no circumstance are you to enter this area unless given express permission. To do so will violate the terms of the contract and you will be reassigned elsewhere.” Then she leads him to another door and gestures toward it. “These are your quarters, and should already be fitted to your specifications.”

When Bucky stares at her, she gestures again to the knob, which looks the same as Agent Rogers’. A black box rests above the handle, and he takes the hint to press his right thumb on it. The light turns green and he pushes the door open.

His bedroom is big; drab, but spacious. The bed is queen-sized with soft white linens. He looks around to find all the essentials: dresser drawers, a big TV, a bookshelf. It’s definitely better than the rat-hole he’d been living in.

Natasha enters the room with a smirk on her face and then leads him to a room adjacent to his own. “And this is your office,” she says.

Bucky is officially speechless, because it’s a real office, with a big desk in front of wall-to-wall windows, an iMac, and a comfy swivel chair. He wonders idly how long it’s going to take him to figure out how to type with his new arm without crushing the keyboard.

He doesn’t have long to consider this, because Natasha is leading him out again and into a walk-in closet filled with clothes. Dress shirts of varying colors are lined up on hangers next to suit jackets and matching pants. There are several pairs of shoes to choose from and an honest-to-god tie rack with a dozen ties.

“Support must always be in uniform unless otherwise stated,” Natasha explains. “Uniform consists of business attire, suit jacket optional unless requested, business casual on Fridays and Saturdays.”

Bucky feels incredibly underdressed in his tattered jeans and threadbare t-shirt, with hair that’s probably stringy by now, because he’s been too lazy to cut it. To be fair, he only got out of a two-week stint in the hospital about ten hours ago.

“Do you have any questions?” Natasha asks.

Bucky huffs a laugh. “I mean, yeah.”

Natasha waits for him to continue, head tilted.

“What happened to Agent Rogers’ last, uhh...Support?”

She smiles. “I received a promotion.”

 _Jesus_ , Bucky thinks. He’s in way over his head. Natasha has her shit together. She’s beautiful and brilliant and good enough that she got promoted, and now Bucky’s balls-deep in trouble because he has no idea what he’s doing. He doesn’t even know how to tie a tie.

“So...is there going to be some...I dunno...training?”

Natasha quirks an eyebrow at him. “What kind of training are you looking for, Sergeant Barnes?”

“I…” Bucky begins, but the words die in his throat as Natasha takes a step toward him and trails a finger down his chest.

“During your thirty-day probationary period, the contract allows me to provide you training in any and all subjects so that you may better assist Agent Rogers.” She pitches her voice lower as her eyes flit down to his lips, and adds, “I highly recommend you utilize my services.”

Bucky swallows, totally speechless for the second time, and Natasha steps away, leaving the room while calling behind her, “Your stylist appointment is in an hour on floor twelve. Agent Rogers will expect you to be in uniform by six p.m. with dinner on the table.” She stops at the bedroom door and looks at him once more. “Oh, and be sure to refer to Agent Rogers as ‘sir.’”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See endnotes for this chapter's trigger warnings.

By “stylist appointment,” Bucky figured it was just a haircut. And at first, it was. Then he was led into a quiet room wherein he received a massage, a facial, and a mani-pedi. Considering he’d spent the past four years in the desert covered in dirt, it was actually pretty nice.

Until the waxing began.

There has been little in Bucky's life as painful as having the grand majority of his hair ripped out of his body en masse, and he’d gotten blown up once.

By the time he makes it back to Agent Rogers’ suite, his skin is all pink and soft, like he’s just been birthed. The fabric of his jeans and shirt feel weird against him, and what’s weirder is that for the first time in his life, he feels _pretty._

Which, not that he’s complaining, but considering how often people cross the street instead of passing him on the sidewalk, “pretty” has never been a word he’s associated with himself.

He collapses onto his new bed and grabs up his tablet. It’s only four p.m., so he should probably get ready for Agent Rogers’ arrival, but he quickly falls into the rabbit hole of information stored for him.

Periodically, Bucky forgets one of his hands is made of metal, and his fingers tap against the glass with a sound that makes him cringe. He wonders if he can have Natasha set him up with someone who can give him finger pads now that everything in the world is a touch screen. From what he knows of weapons-focused Stark Industries and its megalomaniacal engineer, his arm probably wasn’t designed for the delicate intricacies of day-to-day living.

When he scrolls to a picture of Steve Rogers, he stops and stares at it—Captain America, with his blond hair and blue eyes and biceps for days; every queer boy’s lifelong wet dream, really—and it finally hits him like a sack of bricks: _he is going to have sex with Captain America._

Fucking _awesome._

It’s still so unreal to him; overwhelming, really, when Bucky thinks about it—hell, when Bucky thinks about just _meeting_ the guy, let alone _living with him_ _—_ that it’s easier to pretend none of it is really happening and he’s just a fanboy leisurely reading up on his idol.

A lot of the information includes facts he already knows, such as the famous origin story of Captain America, born in 1918 to a life of health issues and wannabe heroism, before the government turned him into a superhuman. Then Bucky gets to the actual medical records, and the dark undercurrent of the story begins to emerge. Young Steve Rogers’ health issues were so much worse than the media made them out to be, which is the exact opposite of what Bucky had been expecting. As a kid, Steve spent years in an iron lung _—_ rather, Bucky learns, the earlier version, a Drinker respirator _—_ and even more time in hospitals. His mother had passed away in his early twenties, but at least by then he could hold himself up for long enough periods to forge his way into the military.

Bucky comes across the first blanket media lie at the beginning of WWII. All the stories say that Steve was graciously accepted into the military by the SSR, but the truth was that he was only accepted on his third try because America was desperate for bodies holding guns. He went through hell in boot camp, and here Bucky finds pictures of the aftermath of violent hazing; small, broken Steve Rogers on military surgery tables, body and face bruised so badly that he’s almost unrecognizable in them. The reports that follow give more gruesome detail: shattered bones, missing teeth, temporary paralysis. His fellow men had used Steve as a punching bag for their aggression, and as Bucky reads, he feels a sudden intense remorse that he couldn’t have been there to stand up for Steve when no one else had.

The story reaches its darkest point when Steve actually _goes_ to the front and ends up jumping on a grenade to save the lives of the same people who ruined his.

Bucky has never related to anything so strongly.

Almost dead _—_ and here, Bucky can’t stand to look at the pictures; they make him nauseated, and his heart pounds against his chest with too many recent memories of his own experiences _—_ the SSR saved his life by injecting him with the serum that made him famous, that turned him into Captain America and changed his life forever.

Finally there’s some light in the darkness, when Steve was honorably discharged and spent months traveling the US supporting war efforts. The pictures that follow are professional headshots, propaganda posters of Steve’s likeness, and clips from the comic book arc that Bucky used to read under his blanket with a flashlight when he was a kid.

A legal battle erupted when Steve wanted to cease his publicity contract to rejoin the ranks. A thoughtful, typewritten letter on yellowed letterhead details Steve’s perspective, and a lump forms in Bucky’s throat at the words, _Men are laying down their lives. It is no longer enough to support the war effort from home. It is my sworn duty as a Captain of the US Military and a citizen of these United States to ensure the sanctity of the world from Nazi occupancy and the growing reach of Adolf Hitler._

Steve formed a troop called the Howling Commandos, a small special ops force who inflicted a massive amount of damage over a short period of time. Bucky quickly finds himself enrapt in a lengthy file of Steve’s post-mission reports. His writing style is clean and precise, but personal enough to be engaging, and Bucky wonders why these were never published.

He flips to the next file, and sees why.

The Howling Commandos lost every single member except one during a rescue operation to retrieve Captain Rogers from Schmidt, who tortured him for an undisclosed time.The report isn’t written from Steve’s perspective, but by Colonel Phillips, whose tone is clipped and bland, transcribing the story told by the near-dead soldier, Timothy 'Dum Dum' Dugan. They are the words of a man who has written too many reports for the deceased. The explanation of the events is difficult to read, Steve Rogers powerless against Nazi forces and watching his friends die, one by one.

The report ends with a glossed-over sentence about the loss of Captain Steven Grant Rogers, whose body was never found…

Until 2006, when he was unearthed from the ice. America, amid war and veering into an economic decline, found its poster boy once more.

And Bucky, a kid with red and blue stars in his eyes, found his hero.

The modern-day information is sparse, which leads Bucky to believe that most of it is classified above his paygrade. Public images show Agent Rogers suited up, not in blue spandex, but in tuxedos at political events, arm in arm with a beautiful woman named Agent Carter. Despite it being Bucky’s duty to cater to Agent Rogers, there is surprisingly little information about what exactly he did as Captain America _—_ aside from being a celebrity presence _—_ and what he does today as a SHIELD Agent.

When Bucky gets to the last page of the manual, he’s also surprised that there’s no information regarding Agent Rogers’ sexual preferences, considering the rest of it is so thorough. It’s like a car manual, kind of. Then again, he reasons, maybe Agent Rogers has never disclosed that information to anyone but his Support staff.

He can always ask Natasha. It’s her job to know these things, after all.

And if he happens to not understand the answers Natasha provides, he can always further his education by requesting that Natasha provide him demonstrations. There’s really no way to lose in this situation.

After a moment’s hesitation, he opens the calendar app and adds his first to-do list item:

_Set meeting with Natasha._

He turns back to his Steve Rogers Manual (the SRM, as he’s begun calling it) and flips to food preferences. He’s happy—but totally not surprised—to find it filled with Americana basics. Bucky’s not anything special in the kitchen, but he is the oldest of four siblings, so he at least knows how to make a damn good cheeseburger. He sets the SRM down and gets out of bed to raid the kitchen.

He figures out how to work the surround sound system in the living room and hook it up to Agent Rogers’ Spotify account; it’s filled with, predictably, oldies, but unpredictably, bubblegum pop music too. He sets it to his own preferences—nineties grunge, the only _real_ music—while he preps dinner. All the fixings for burgers are there, including some impressive-looking cheddar, organic produce, and an entire shelf of craft beer.

When the food is prepped, Bucky goes back to his room to get dressed. He picks out a dark purple shirt and charcoal gray pants, which fit him perfectly, along with all of his shoes. He should probably be creeped out about the uncanny tailoring, but SHIELD is nothing if not creepy, so he’s just going to have to get used to it.

He selects a black skinny tie and ropes it around his neck before heading to his office to find a YouTube video on how to tie the damn thing. It takes him about a dozen tries, made more difficult because, despite the physical therapy he’d been provided, acute movements with his new arm are still difficult. He finally gets the hang of it, and secures it with a silver tie clip.

In front of the full-length mirror in his walk-in closet, he barely recognizes himself. Not three months ago, he looked like some kind of homeless-couture hipster in a grad student’s documentary thesis, and now he looks...good. Really good. The facial got rid of the dark circles under his eyes and smoothed out the skin around his five o’clock shadow. Instead of a nest of chin-length tangles, his hair is now longer on the top and shorter at the sides, swept over in a faux-vintage look that he thought Agent Rogers might appreciate.

He didn’t even look this good for senior prom. But unlike senior prom, tonight he might actually get laid.

Part of him hopes that Agent Rogers is some kind of insatiable sex fiend, as per Bucky’s lifetime of fantasies. He’ll walk in, see Bucky, and drag him into the bedroom to pound into him until Bucky can’t think straight.

But first things first; he’s never even met the guy.

Bucky rolls up his sleeves and finds a plain black apron in the pantry to keep his clothes from getting dirty. He finishes cooking dinner by 5:56, then plates it up as nice as a cheeseburger and oven-baked steak fries can look. He pairs the burger with a dark beer and sets the music to something calming.

It’s 5:59, and he isn’t sure what to do with himself. He’s hungry, but doesn't know if he’s supposed to eat. He decides to put his burger in the oven to keep warm until Agent Rogers gives him the go-ahead.

He hears heavy footsteps walking down the hallway, so he puts his apron away, rolls down his sleeves, and, without thinking, stands next to the door.

Bucky’s heart speeds up when he hears the beep of the lock, and when the door swings open, he stands at attention, staring straight ahead across the room and forcing his hand not to tremble with nervousness.

He doesn’t risk a glance toward the doorway, but sees Agent Rogers enter from his peripheral vision, and hears the distinct sounds of items being dropped on the table by the foyer. Agent Rogers stops when he sees Bucky, pauses for a long moment, and walks toward him, slowly, until they’re standing face to face.

Agent Rogers is— _sweet Jesus_ _—_ taller than Bucky had been expecting, broader than Bucky had been expecting, and achingly more attractive than he’d been expecting. He'd been intimately aware of Captain America’s greatness, but feeling it first-hand in the form of _standing right in front of him_ is like being blindsided by a tidal wave, which is crashing over Bucky so intensely that he doesn’t even register that he’s no longer breathing.

He can feel rather than see the way Agent Rogers passes his eyes over Bucky’s body in what Bucky assumes is assessment, and he’s thankful that his metal arm is behind his back and covered with the sleeve of his shirt. His jaw is clenched so tight it hurts, and he hopes that whatever Agent Rogers is seeing, he likes, because getting canned on the first day of what is pretty much a charity gig would be a whole new level of life-failure.

Agent Rogers is silent for so long that Bucky’s about to quit right then and there—the thought strikes him that he doesn’t even know if he’s allowed to quit, and wishes he’d read the fine print more closely, because he did _not_ sign up for this kind of mind-obliterating intensity—but then Agent Rogers says, “At ease, Sergeant.”

Bucky lets out a long breath as he settles his arm behind his back and moves his feet shoulder’s width apart. He finally lets himself look at Agent Rogers instead of at a point over his shoulder. Their eyes meet for a first time, and Bucky’s still having a hard time breathing. He considers himself mostly a people-person, can get a read on just about anybody, but looking into Agent Rogers’ devastatingly blue eyes is like staring into the depths of the ocean—he can’t even see what’s in front of him, not really.

Agent Rogers holds out a hand and says, “Steve Rogers.”

Bucky nods once and takes his hand. It’s big, warm, and rough, and for a moment Bucky can’t help but imagine it wrapped around his cock; a mere flash of an image, but it makes his voice tight nevertheless. “James Barnes. It’s good to meet you.” He pauses a moment, and then adds, “...sir.”

He notices the corner of Steve’s lips twitch up. “And you.”

“Dinner’s ready if you’re hungry, sir.”

Steve glances at the table before pulling off his suit jacket and draping it over the back of the couch, then rolls up his sleeves as he takes a seat. “Looks amazing. Where’s yours?”

Bucky pours Steve’s beer into his glass and replies, “The oven, sir. I wasn’t sure about the protocol.”

“You’re more than welcome to eat with me, Sergeant. I’d appreciate the company.”

Bucky retrieves his food from the oven and sits across from Steve, who takes a bite of his burger while Bucky tries not to noticeably hold his breath in anticipation. When Steve doesn’t respond, Bucky asks, “Good? ...Sir.”

Steve nods. “Very. Thank you.”

They eat in what Bucky perceives as uncomfortable silence. He doesn’t feel welcome breaking it by making small talk, and Steve doesn’t offer any. He feels like it might be part of the job, asking about Agent Rogers’ day, but until he knows for sure, he’s going to keep his mouth shut.

When Steve is finished eating, he stands from the table and says, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a long day. I think I’m going to retire for the evening.”

Bucky stands from the table in haste and replies, “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

Steve smiles at him, tight-lipped, and now Bucky can see an emotion through the sea of stormy blue. Agent Rogers looks...tired. Not of the long-day variety, but the existential kind. He suddenly looks as weary as his ninety-some years indicate. “No, that will be all. Dinner was very good, thank you. I’ll see you for breakfast tomorrow morning.”

Bucky nods. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Then Agent Rogers heads into his bedroom and closes the door behind him.

And Bucky is reasonably certain Steve’s dismissiveness is a very bad sign and that somebody is going to come for him in the middle of the night to wrench off his arm and throw him to the wolves. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting; maybe for Agent Rogers to bend him over a table and fuck him right away, to take him to bed at the very least. He thought maybe he'd get to ask about his life, try to get to know him better than what he read about in the SRM. Then again, Bucky reasons, he’s not a roommate or even a friend. Bucky’s probably just one in however many Supports Steve has had since retiring, just a number not even worth getting to know.  

With a sigh, he cleans up dinner and heads to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW this chapter for descriptions of wounds, and mentions of torture and bullying.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Officially adding [habitatfordeanwinchester](http://www.habitatfordeanwinchester.tumblr.com) to the beta list.

Bucky bolts out of bed with a start, heart pounding in his chest and an alarm blaring by his bed. It takes him a handful of seconds to look around the darkened room and remember where he is: not in his shit-hole apartment in Brooklyn, or in a makeshift barrack overseas, but in the SHIELD Tower. It’s so early that it’s still dark outside, and Bucky groans while he runs his hand over his face.

His metal fingers are cold on his own skin, and he hears rather than feels them shift over his morning stubble. His arm falls back onto his lap with a thud, and he tears the covers off of his legs to get in the shower and prepare for his first full day on the job.

By eight a.m., Bucky has bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast on the dining room table as well as coffee. He sets a plate for himself this time, and sits in front of it, face in hand as he tries not to fall back asleep.

Agent Rogers comes out of his bedroom at 8:02 wearing a light gray suit with a cobalt blue tie that brings out the color of his eyes. Bucky sits up straight and says, “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes,” Steve replies as he takes the seat opposite Bucky. He doesn’t smile or make eye contact, and his face is impossible to read.

For the life of him, Bucky can’t figure out why he chooses this moment to blurt out, “You can call me Bucky.”

He immediately wishes he hadn’t said a damn thing, because now Agent Rogers is staring at him with his eyebrows raised. The problem is that Bucky _hates_ being referred to by his military rank. Especially in his personal living quarters. Which, he reasons, aren’t technically _his_ , but he thinks he might snap eventually if he has to hear _Sergeant Barnes_ every minute of every day.

“Bucky,” Steve says, like he’s trying out the name on his tongue. His face hardens again and he adds, “Where’s the newspaper?”

“Uhh…” Bucky replies, looking around the room.

“And cream and sugar? For my coffee?”

“Uhh…”

“And I take my eggs over-medium, not scrambled. Did you read _any_ of the information you were provided?” Steve stares at him, face blank but for a hint of irritation bubbling up under the surface.

Bucky’s brain grinds to a halt. “I’m...sorry?”

Steve lets out a heavy exhale and stands from his seat. He retrieves the newspaper from the floor outside the front door, then tucks it under his arm and opens the fridge to pull out a bottle of coffee creamer. He grabs a sugar bowl from the counter and then makes his way back to the table.

Bucky doesn’t know what to say. A lump rises in his throat like he used to get when his ma yelled at him, when he fucked up by doing dumb shit like spilling milk or getting into a fight to save some other poor kid from going home with a shiner.

It’s dumb. It’s so dumb. It’s his first goddamn day, and this fucker is expecting him to be perfect.

Steve gestures to the plate in front of Bucky and says, “Go ahead, eat.” Then he unfolds the newspaper and lifts it in front of him, shutting Bucky out from all potential conversation.

Bucky’s breath is shallow in his throat and he doesn’t know whether to apologize or flip the table in a fit of rage.

The order seems like a trap so that Bucky can fuck up again, so he maintains silence through several tension-filled minutes.

Steve lets the newspaper fall back so that their eyes meet once more, and he says, “If you’re unable to perform the tasks given to you, I recommend you speak to Natasha about changing your placement.” One corner of his lips twitch up, challenging, and he adds, “I hear there’s an opening in the mail room.”

Bucky slams his flesh-and-bone fist on the table. The plates and silverware rattle and coffee sloshes out of both mugs. He stands and grits out, “If you’ll excuse me.”

Steve continues glaring at him, face a mask of stoicism. He folds his paper and says, “I won’t. Sit down, Sergeant.”

 _Fuck_ the military for whatever mind games they played on him; against his better judgment, Bucky’s knees buckle and he falls back to his seat.

Steve continues, “I said, eat. When I give you an order, I expect you to follow it. When you are given instructions, I expect you to follow them. You were given both this morning and you failed.” He looks Bucky over, eyes scanning his face down to his chest, and he adds, “You’re not even in uniform.”

He’s right, and it makes Bucky’s stomach twist into a knot. Bucky got frustrated with his necktie this morning, so he skipped it and hoped Agent Rogers wouldn’t notice.

Steve continues, voice softer, “When you do what is expected of you, you’ll be rewarded. When you fail at meeting those expectations, you will be punished. Are we clear?”

Bucky picks up his fork with a trembling hand and tries not to bend it in his grip. “Yes,” he mutters.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Bucky corrects.

“Good. Thank you, Bucky,” Steve says, and conceals himself once more behind his newspaper.

***

Bucky blocks a punch aimed for his right cheekbone, and utilizes the momentum to grab Natasha’s arm and twist it. She flips out of his hold by running up the wall to launch herself behind him, and now he’s choking himself with the inside of his metal elbow.

He taps out, and they start again.

It calms him, the flow of the fight, and he needs it after the morning from hell. Once Steve had left for work—with a terse, “I’ll be back late. No need to prepare dinner for me.”—Bucky cleaned up from breakfast and texted Natasha, _I need to meet with you ASAP._

She replied, _About to go work out. Wanna spar?_

As if that was even a question.

So here they are, in sub-level three of the SHIELD Tower, bouncing around on thick blue mats in a small industrial room they have all to themselves.

Natasha grunted a good morning at him and they started fighting, no pretense, no rules, which Bucky thought was pretty presumptuous of her. She’s about half his size, so Bucky figured he’d go easy.

After three rounds of having his ass handed to him, he realizes that he was very wrong in his assumptions.

Bucky dodges another punch. The movement is slow and calculated, the hits soft and easy anyway, like choreography. He throws his own punch and, apropos of the sadness and dread sitting heavy in his chest, says, “He told me there was an opening in the mail room.”

Natasha blocks him and puts him in a simple wrist lock he wasn’t prepared for. He taps out and they ready themselves again.

“Well it’s not a lie,” she replies, waiting for Bucky to make the first move.

Instead, Bucky shrugs. “I wiped out entire military bases single-handed—no pun intended. You’d think making breakfast wouldn’t end so disastrously.”

Natasha sighs and shifts out of her stance to grab her water bottle from the corner of the room. She takes a long pull from it and leans against the wall. Bucky follows, already sweating buckets even though it feels like they just got started.

“I worked for the KGB before joining SHIELD,” Natasha says, casual, like she used to be a coffeehouse barista. “I’d never cooked a real meal before I got this job. Agent Rogers’ breakfasts for the first two weeks were bagels and cream cheese.” She pauses to look down and huff a laugh, mirthless, shaking her head. “I skated by on dinners of his favorite takeout while I spent my days watching cooking shows. I hand-washed a shirt that needed dry cleaning. I broke the garbage disposal. I spent every waking moment in fear that I was going to get fired and deported.” She meets his gaze again and concludes, “Agent Rogers was so angry that he wouldn’t speak to me for an entire month.”

Bucky scoffs, disgusted, and more importantly, disappointed. “What is _with_ that guy? I thought Captain America was supposed to be some kind of martyr.”

“Captain America is. Steve Rogers isn’t. At least not anymore. Nowadays, he’s all about impossible standards.”

Bucky hesitates before asking his next question, thinking it might somehow have been addressed already in his mostly-unread SRM, somewhere between the lines maybe. He’d been so assured of himself, thought he knew all there was to know just because he’d been a lifelong fanboy and a loyal soldier. “What happened?”

Natasha shrugs, and Bucky feels an ounce of relief. “I’ve done a lot of research trying to figure it out. Interviews from the war. First-hand accounts of people who knew him before the serum. He sounded like a really good guy, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t an asshole. It’s like...he was so busy fighting that he never had a real friend, so he doesn’t know how to treat people. And now, he’s in his nineties but he looks like he’s in his thirties; he’s wearing down and doesn’t do as much work, as much _good_ , so he’s just a prickly bastard who barks orders.”

Bucky nudges her arm with his elbow. “So what you’re saying is you’re glad you got promoted.”

She thinks for a moment, frowning. “No, not exactly. I liked being his Support. I understand him, I think, but I could never get _through_ to him, you know? I—I care about him, so I took the promotion in hopes that I could find someone who might...make a dent in his armor.” Natasha picks at the label of her water bottle, a wrinkle between her eyebrows in thoughtful consternation. “I needed a soldier, someone who’d been through hell and come out the other side with a spark of life still left in them. Someone who could understand Steve like I understand him, but who might be able to actually do something about it.”

Bucky huffs a nervous laugh. “Well let me know when you find them and I’ll be happy to step down. I hear there’s an opening in the mail room.”

Natasha levels a glare at him. “I’m serious, James. I think you’ll be good for each other.”

“If we don’t kill each other first.”

Natasha looks down and hides a small smile, the first one Bucky’s seen since they met. “C’mon, I gotta get you back into shape.” She pokes his stomach and adds, “All that vacation time made you soft.”

“I _lost an_ _arm_ ,"Bucky retaliates.

Natasha shifts from foot to foot on the mat, grinning. “No excuse. Let’s go.”


	4. Chapter 4

It’s ten p.m. and Bucky is already in bed. He hasn’t gone to bed this early voluntarily since...ever. The penthouse is so quiet he could hear a pin drop; the silence is suffocating.

Agent Rogers hasn’t come back yet, but Bucky spent the entire day memorizing the SRM, so he knows that past nine p.m., Supports are on-call and required only to do tasks as assigned. Steve’s only order was _not_ to make him dinner, and Bucky performed said task spectacularly.

And now he’s _bored._

He could call Sam, see how he’s doing. He could look up the difference between a Windsor and a Half Windsor (he’s finally mastered the Four-in-Hand knot, which turned out to be good acute movement practice with his prosthetic). He could Pinterest new recipes. There are lots of things he _could_ do, all of which are much more productive than what he ends up actually doing, which is texting Natasha, _Why is it a sex thing if there’s no sex?_

She replies, _???_

_B: The contract made it seem pretty cut & dry that Id be some kinda sex slave_

_N: It’s been one day, James._

_B: And yet I go unfucked_

_N: Impatience is not a desirable trait in a sexual partner. Maybe Agent Rogers picked up on that._

_B: Fuck you_

_N: Not until you learn your place._

Bucky glares at his phone, frowning.

_B: Yeah? And wheres that?_

_N: If you have to ask, you need more training than I thought._

_B: So train me_

Natasha doesn’t reply, so Bucky downloads the Pinterest app while he waits. He finds a marinara recipe that doesn’t compare to his mother’s, a carrot cake he might want to try, and cross-checks whether or not Steve likes Pad Thai.

He’s about to venture onto a blog post of fifty potato recipes when he hears a knock at the door. Bucky rushes out of his room, scrambling to get his tie back around his neck and knotted again. It’s lopsided and haphazard when he throws the door open and finds Natasha staring up at him.

“Uhh...hey?” Bucky asks.

Natasha grabs him by the tie and pulls him in for a harsh kiss. She slots her small body against his and backs him into the room before kicking the door closed behind them. Her mouth is soft yet demanding, and it takes Bucky a solid handful of seconds to push her away— _Jesus_ she’s strong—so he can ask, “The hell?”

She stares at him, brow furrowed, and explains as though it’s obvious, “Training.”

Bucky looks her up and down. She’s wearing a tight black cocktail dress with a low neckline and jewelry that probably cost as much as Bucky’s arm. “What’re you—”

Natasha interrupts by kissing him again and shoving him back toward his room. She yanks his tie open and begins to thumb open the buttons of his shirt. “Lesson one,” she mutters against his lips, “no speaking unless spoken to, yellowing, or redding out.”

Bucky tries to stifle his smile as he asks, “So what happens if I talk?”

She pulls away and glares at him. “I hit you.”

Bucky scoffs. “You wouldn’t.”

So she lifts her hand and cracks an open palm across his face.

It stings like a motherfucker, but Bucky’s never gotten so hard so fast in his entire life.

His jaw goes loose as he stares at Natasha, who stares back at him with the shadow of a smile across her face. He wants to say something, anything, wavering between being angry and impressed, but he remains silent.

Natasha strokes a gentle hand over the throbbing wake of her fingers and says, “Good boy,” then walks past him into his bedroom.

Against his better judgment, Bucky follows.

“Get naked and lie on the bed,” Natasha orders, opening her clutch purse to check her phone.

Bucky does, unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it in the vicinity of the closet before going for his belt.

“You should have more respect for your belongings,” Natasha says with a glance at the discarded dress shirt.

Bucky opens his mouth to reply, but when Natasha arches an eyebrow at him, he thinks better of it and bends down to pick up his shirt. He hangs it on an empty hanger to be taken with the rest of the dry cleaning, and finishes getting undressed, taking his time putting everything where it belongs.

Natasha is still fully dressed by the time Bucky crawls onto the bed, feeling confused and exposed and a little bit powerless. It’s thrilling in a way that unsettles him, in the same way being bossed around in the military was actually relaxing; the burden of decision-making taken away from him, shoulders free from the weight of thought. Unlike the military, though, all he has to do is utter the word _red_ and Natasha will end the game as fast as it started.

He barely knows her, but, oddly enough, he trusts her with that.

Natasha tosses her phone back into her clutch and sets it on the nightstand.

Bucky expects her to take off some of her jewelry, maybe turn around and ask him to unzip her dress. Instead, she remains standing by the bed, head tilted as she trails her gaze down his body in appraisal. It sends a chill down his spine, and his cock is still half-hard and resting on his thigh. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he spins his fingers around in the sheets. It’s killing him to not be able to talk, say something to break the tension, some crass joke to ease the itch over his skin. He bites his cheek and balls his hands into fists to keep from pulling Natasha onto him so he can speed this along.

As if reading his mind, she meets his eyes and her stern glare softens into amusement. This is part of the game, Bucky realizes. He’s _supposed_ to be feeling this way, fighting the yearning ache in his gut to _do_ something, anything but lie on his back and wait. This void of nothingness but eye contact and tension is a sweet kind of agony that is in itself so hot, Bucky’s fully hard again and has to bite his lip against the groan that threatens to escape him.

Natasha sits at the edge of the bed, so close that Bucky can feel her body heat against his legs. She trails her fingertips up his thigh, her nails ghosting gently across his skin. She continues touching him, exploring his body with her hands. It’s idle movement, so soft that Bucky’s muscles tense under her ministrations.

“Arms above your head,” she says finally. “Grip the bars of the headboard.”

Bucky does, sliding his fingers around the wood panels in both of his hands. In one, he feels the cool smoothness against his palm. In the other, he feels nothing but the sturdiness of the oak.

Natasha shifts on the bed and hikes her skirt up her thighs while she straddles Bucky’s lap. She sets a hand on either side of his head and studies his face like she did the rest of his body, long red hair brushing against his cheeks, eyes scanning him like Agent Rogers had the night before. Something about it sets him on fire, and he grips the headboard a little tighter while he bites his lip.

Natasha lowers herself onto him so that he can feel the warm slide of satin panties grace the tip of his cock. It shocks him so much that he gasps, but Natasha leans in and swallows it down with a deep, slow kiss, one that turns his brain into dial tone while she learns his mouth in the same way she just managed to learn the rest of him.

She rolls her hips a little, just enough that Bucky can feel fabric brush against him. His cock pulses toward the friction, but Natasha pulls away. Over and over again, Natasha gives him teasing touches and kisses that hold too many empty promises, all while Bucky is completely at her mercy lest he open himself for punishment.

Natasha pulls away from his mouth just enough to lick across his bottom lip and suck it between her teeth, biting down on it as she slowly lowers herself so that Bucky can feel the wetness soaked through her panties. He lets out a sigh of relief which is quickly replaced by a wave of more tension.

When his hips move of their own volition to increase the pressure, press his cock into the cleft of her pussy, she pulls away completely and smiles against his lips.

“I need you to be a good boy for me, James,” she whispers as she kisses along his jaw and lowers herself onto him again. “Good boys get rewarded.”

He wants to ask _how_ or maybe _Jesus God what will it take for you to fuck me,_ but instead he grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut against the onslaught of barely-there sensation.

Natasha stops kissing Bucky to rest her lips against his, eyes fluttering shut as she begins grinding down on him. Her panties are completely soaked through with a mix of her own juices and Bucky’s wetness, the glide of Natasha’s cunt moving faster and harder. Now Bucky’s biggest problem isn’t that the tension is too high, it’s that he is suddenly dangerously close to coming. His mind begins to unravel, and he clutches the headboard tighter.

Distantly, he can hear wood splintering in his metal hand, but it’s drowned out by the soft sounds of Natasha panting, her forehead pressed against his and her eyes screwed shut.

He’s very quickly approaching the point of no return, so out of his control, he whispers a broken, _“Please.”_

A short pulse of cool air meets his body as Natasha sits up, and the open-handed slap that follows makes him choke out a desperate sob. It pushes him so close to the edge that he has to chant baseball statistics in his head to keep from coming. When that doesn’t work, he thinks about his drill instructor, his grandmother, his grandmother yelling at his drill instructor, but nothing works.

“What did I tell you?” Natasha asks, still grinding on top of him in a steady motion.

It takes Bucky a couple seconds to remember how to speak. “No speaking unless spoken to,” Bucky replies, trying not to whine. For good measure, he adds, “Good boys get rewarded.”

Natasha’s voice is breathless as she continues, “And do you think you’ve been good?”

“No,” Bucky replies immediately, and it shocks him. The goal here is to _get off_ , not admit to truths that will _prevent_ him from getting off. Still, it feels freeing to be so honest, so raw, almost as good as coming, but not quite.

It feels even better when Natasha runs her hand through his hair, kisses him and whispers, “It’s a start.”

She stills above him and lets out a low groan. Bucky can feel her panties drench with wetness, so soaked that it slides down his balls. He can feel her cunt pulse on top of him as she comes, and she grazes her teeth across his jaw, her hand gripping his hair and pulling it so hard that Bucky can’t breathe for fear of coming without permission.

He could just _do it_ , he realizes, and deal with the consequences later. He’s already taken a beating from Natasha several times today, but he doesn’t think her punishment would actually be in the form of physical pain—she knows he can handle it. Hell, she probably knows how much he likes it. Bucky worries that the punishment will be in the form of Natasha not wanting to train him anymore, not thinking he’s worth her time.

So against all odds, despite being pushed so close to the edge that it hurts, he staves himself off while Natasha slumps down beside him, her thigh on top of his and her head resting on his chest.

Bucky lets out a deep breath when he ebbs away from his encroaching orgasm.

“You can let go of the headboard now,” Natasha says.

Bucky does, and wraps his arm around her. His entire body is covered in sweat, and his breaths come out heaving like he ran a marathon.

They lie there until Bucky is calm again, Natasha running her fingers through his hair until his mind goes heavy and it’s difficult to move his body. It’s a new kind of relaxation that he’s never felt before. He’s not sleepy like he would be if he’d been allowed to come; he’s actually completely alert, and for the first time since he returned from overseas, his mind is quiet, serene. He barely notices when Natasha gets up from the bed.

She comes back moments later with a large glass of ice water and a protein bar.

“After I leave, I want you to eat and drink these, then I want you to text me a picture of them as evidence,” she says, shifting the blankets underneath him so she can cover him.

Bucky nods.

“You can speak freely now,” she adds.

Bucky has to swallow before attempting to speak, his tongue resting heavy in his mouth. “Can I…” he begins, but doesn’t know how to ask.

She sits beside him on the bed and runs her hands through his hair again. “You can come between one a.m. and one-oh-five. You won’t need to set an alarm. I would give you something to think about, but you won’t need that, either.”

Bucky doesn’t understand, but he’s too tired to ask.

She sits with him so long, combing her fingers through his hair, that the world drifts out of focus for a moment. Quiet and stern, she says, “Being good isn't about doing what you’re told, James. You can't just want the reward. You have to want to be good.”

He doesn’t understand that, either, but he nods and shifts closer to her touch, eyes closing in surprised contentment.

Natasha leans down and kisses Bucky’s forehead, then takes her clutch from the table. Before she leaves, she says, “Just a heads up, from one Support to another, you’ll need three place settings for breakfast in the morning.”

“Why?” Bucky asks, having temporarily forgotten the fiasco of earlier in the day.

“You’ll see,” Natasha says with a smile, and leaves the apartment.


	5. Chapter 5

Bucky listens as the door closes behind Natasha. The apartment is, again, stifling in its newfound silence, and Bucky lifts a heavy hand to the bridge of his nose while he lets his mind reel. The room is drenched in the smell of sex, and there’s a small knot of worry in his stomach that he did something he wasn’t supposed to, something that would upset Agent Rogers if he found out.

Then again, Natasha would tell him if he had. Natasha has his back. She especially has him wrapped around her finger, and Bucky is surprisingly okay with that. Right now, Bucky is kind of okay with everything.

With a deep breath, he sits up and does as he’s told. His mind is still pleasantly fuzzy, like the world is less sharp, softer at the corners. He drinks the water and eats the protein bar without thinking much about it, uses the restroom, and goes back to bed. His eyelids are heavy when he snaps a fuzzy picture of the empty water glass and protein bar to send to Natasha, and he barely registers the immediate reply of, _“Very good. Thank you,”_ before his eyes close.

He doesn’t even realize that he dozed off until he’s woken by the sound of the front door opening—he’s been afflicted with the curse of light sleep ever since joining the service—and the muffled voices that follow. He recognizes one of them as Agent Rogers, intermittently laughing. It’s a sound Bucky has never heard before, and the thought hits him hard. The other belongs to a woman who doesn’t sound familiar. The cadence of her voice is different; Bucky thinks she might be English, but he can’t hear what they’re saying. They’re giggling too much.

It’s a strange notion: Steve Rogers, ex-Captain America, giggling; the same man who reprimanded Bucky not twenty-four hours ago for neglecting to bring him his newspaper, like a poorly trained dog.

Bucky glances at the clock beside his bed. It’s a quarter till one, and he’s reminded of Natasha’s orders—no, Bucky corrects himself, her recommendation, which means he could go back to sleep if he wanted to.

With a small thrill, it occurs to him that he could do whatever the hell he wants. He could get off right now, outside the bounds of his time frame, and Natasha would never know. He played this game already; for the past four years, when someone told him to jump, he asked how high. And all it got him was a metal arm, an honorable discharge, and a lifetime of nightmares. For four fucking years, he took orders without complaint. He should be able to do whatever the fuck he wants now. Hell, he should go ahead and make a mess of himself and send a picture of it to Natasha before the clock ticks over.

He’s about to do just that, he really is. The fingers of his real hand are trailing up his cock, which twitches to attention immediately, but he freezes when he hears a high-pitched moan from the living room. The sound is cut off abruptly, muffled into silence.

Bucky pauses and tilts his head to listen better. Steve and his guest are no longer talking; he can’t hear anything at all. Bucky had too many younger siblings claiming to “watch TV” with their dates in the basement—and Bucky was nice about it, only ever interrupted once to “do his laundry” when his sister brought home a guy Bucky’s age who reeked of weed and trouble—to pretend they’re playing Scrabble and not actively making out on the couch. Or, based on the half-moan he just heard, maybe something else.

The way Bucky clenches his jaw at the thought isn’t a sign of jealousy. The stab of disappointment in his gut isn’t, either. He’s not jealous at all. He’s _not_.

All thoughts of defying Natasha’s recommendation flee as he listens to the woman’s sudden raucous laughter, and one set of heavy footsteps. Bucky can see it so clearly: tan thighs straddling Steve’s lap, his big, rough hand threaded through her long brown hair, and then him standing while she wraps her legs around his hips and he carries her to his bedroom.

It’s 12:42 when the light turns off, the slat under his door going dark. Bucky hadn’t realized before, but he shares a wall with Steve, and now he can pick up on more details—shifting fabric, the soft sounds of a deep kiss, a single creak of a mattress, the heavy metal clank of a belt buckle and then the sharp snap of it being pulled out of its loops.

The SHIELD Tower may be a state-of-the-art facility, complete with the best security known to man, but the walls are thinner than they were at Bucky’s rat-hole Brooklyn studio. Maybe it’s intentional, Bucky thinks; a mere veil of privacy in the Support/Lead relationship. The thought leads Bucky to wonder if Steve knows Bucky can listen in, if he’s thinking about Bucky listening in, if he likes that Bucky might be listening in.

Involuntarily, Bucky’s hand moves to his cock again, hardening at the thought of Steve thinking about Bucky while fucking some woman, playing up the situation maybe, putting on a little show of sorts for him. An equally filthy thought occurs to Bucky, too: of Steve being totally unaware of Bucky listening in at all, of Bucky perving out on Steve’s tryst in silence, hand stroking his cock and lip bitten between his teeth, eyes screwed shut while he imagines what’s going on.

It’s just like old times, really, huddled in his bottom bunk, sixteen and uncontrollably horny, his baby brother on the bunk above him sleeping peacefully. Bucky used to think about Captain America saving him from some catastrophe, smiling that sweet, brilliant smile that Bucky could see behind his eyelids whenever he closed his eyes. He thought about Captain America fucking him six ways from Sunday afterward, manhandling him with his strong body, kissing him all over, telling him how good he was, how he was worth saving.

Only now _the real Steve Rogers_ is one room away. It’s a goddamn dream come true, sort of. The only way it could get better is if Bucky were the one whose legs were wrapped around Steve’s waist; if Bucky were the reason Steve took off his belt.

The room goes silent except for heady panting, and now Bucky is thinking about Steve going down on her, face buried in pussy before he even thinks about touching himself, because even if he’s kind of a jerk sometimes, he’s still the goddamn definition of chivalry.

“Steve,” Bucky hears, a low whine. Definitely English. But the name gives Bucky pause; he’s only ever heard him referred to as _Agent Rogers_ , _sir_ , or _Captain_. The name is familiar on her lips, and it’s obvious that she’s said it many times before, just like she’s saying it now, pleading and wanting and a little bit warning. “Steve, I’m—”

The woman gasps, then there’s a tense pause, and she cries out wordlessly. She doesn’t try to abate the moan at all, like neither of them remember Bucky is mere feet away, or maybe they just don’t care.

Bucky grasps the base of his dick to keep from coming, unable to stop imagining Steve’s face between a woman’s legs, laving at her clit and eyes set in determination as he looks up at her.

 _Fuck._ It’s only 12:51, and Bucky doesn’t know if he can hold out for the encore.

Based on the low groan that follows shortly after, Bucky imagines Steve settling himself between her legs and sliding inside her, slow, slick and hard. Bucky knows the feeling well, of being entered. It’s the ultimate relief, like swimming in sun-kissed water on a hot summer day. He can hear the bed rocking in a steady, hard motion, the mattress shifting. He thinks he can even hear Steve’s heavy breathing, the first noise he’s made at all. It makes Bucky have to bite back his own moan, knowing Captain fucking America is so far in the throes of passion that he lets himself go. Bucky can imagine his dark lashes fanned against his cheeks, his lips pink and spit-slick, his mouth tasting like pussy.

Bucky’s leaking out a steady stream, pumping himself hard and fast without even noticing. He reaches up and his metal hand finds the headboard notches he made while Natasha was riding him. He’s so close he can taste it, riding the edge for as long as he can. On the other side of the wall, Steve is pounding into the woman, who cries out periodically, a litany of curses and praises. Bucky can just see the sheen of sweat over Steve’s perfect body, thick cock sinking into her, over and over again.

Bucky looks at the clock. It’s 12:59. He keeps staring at it as he works himself, twisting at the head and losing his rhythm, groaning out the exhale of every breath he takes. If they hear him, he doesn’t care.

Steve starts moaning, as close as Bucky. The bed is slamming into the wall, and the sound almost drowns out everything else.

The clock ticks over to one at the exact same moment the bed stops rattling and Steve lets out a cracked, desperate groan. Bucky’s fist stills and he comes, biting back a shout by gritting his teeth. He comes so hard that he can’t catch it all in his hand. It hits his chin and falls down his neck, and he’s still coming, wave after wave of his orgasm crashing over him like he’s never felt before.

He listens to murmured speech in the aftermath, hushed words he can’t make out, but they’re hazy, falling into the distance as he quickly tumbles into sleep.

***

Bucky wakes up a little before six a.m., well before his alarm goes off. His room is a dim gray in the dull morning dawn, and he sighs when he feels how utterly fucking disgusting he is. Any other morning, he’d go back to sleep, but he needs to wash himself off.

When he moves, he expects to feel like he got hit by a bus, but his body feels so much lighter, less tense. He stretches while walking into the shower, and every breath he takes makes his lungs feel like they’re bigger today than they were yesterday. His mind is calm, his body relaxed under the hot, heavy spray of the shower.

By breakfast time, he’s whistling while flipping the last piece of french toast in the air and catching it with the pan behind his back. It’s good to know that gaining a metal arm hasn’t much affected his hand-eye coordination. The table is set with everything he fucked up yesterday, plus black tea for his English guest—Natasha hadn’t mentioned that detail, but Bucky figured he should have his bases covered—and a number of other items he took notes on after yesterday’s thorough read-through of the SRM.

Steve’s bedroom door opens when the piece of french toast lands.

“Quite impressive,” the woman says, sauntering to the table, and Bucky hurriedly sets the pan back on the burner. He lowers his eyes but risks a glance at her. She’s more stunning than Bucky had imagined, hair in a messy bun on top of her head, wearing nothing but a rumpled white tuxedo shirt about ten sizes too big for her. He can see the outline of black panties underneath it, and averts his gaze to powder the stack of french toast in front of him.

He gives a small nod in reply—he might still be in no-speaking mode—and brings the plate over to her. She pours tea from the pot into her cup, sitting cross-legged on a chair that has thus far always been empty.

“Thank you, Bucky,” she says when he sets the plate down, and he gives her a small smile. He busies himself with the next batch of french toast, then pauses.

The only person at SHIELD who knows he goes by Bucky is Agent Rogers. Which means Agent Rogers must have told this woman that he goes by Bucky, which means he must have been talking about Bucky.

And _now_ is when he feels like he got hit by a bus, because it finally settles in him like a brick in his gut that _Captain America knows who he is._

“Bucky?” the woman asks. “Are you alright?”

He swallows, hard, the blood that had drained from his face coming back as a dark flush. He opens his mouth to try to reply, but of course, that’s when Agent Rogers comes out of his bedroom, fully dressed in a navy blue suit and matching tie, blond hair slicked in its usual retro style that’s now modern again.

“Good morning,” he says with a spring in his step that Bucky is sure he’s not imagining.

Steve leans down, tilts the woman's chin up, and their lips meet for a long, slow, languid kiss. It takes all of Bucky’s willpower to tear his eyes away. Whatever feeling is welling up within him isn’t jealousy this time. He’s not sure what it is. It’s not good or bad, and as far as he knows, there’s not a word for it. It’s something like intrigue mixed with envy, but he pushes it away so he can finish serving breakfast.

“Good morning,” the woman says with a smile when they part.

"'Morning." Steve sits down at his usual spot and prepares his coffee.

When Bucky readies the remainder of the plates, he brings them to the table and takes a seat.

“Bucky,” Steve says, gesturing to the woman, “this is Agent Carter.”

Bucky barely recognizes the woman from all the pictures in the SRM. She’s still one of the most beautiful women Bucky has ever seen, but in the light of morning, the intimidating, larger-than-life visage from the photographs is less pronounced. Bucky can still see it though, under the surface, in the sharpness of her eyes and the glint of her smile.

Agent Carter holds out her hand to him. Bucky keeps his metal hand under the table while he reaches out with his flesh one and takes hers. Her handshake is firm, her palm rougher than he’d been expecting. It’s the hand of a person who’s done their own dirty work, and Bucky has to reevaluate his first impression of her.

“Please,” Agent Carter says with a warm smile. “I prefer Peggy.”

“Peggy,” Bucky repeats with a nod.

She smiles at him. “Not all of us at SHIELD are so formal.”

“It’s called maintaining boundaries,” Steve says, terse, while filling his plate with about three servings of french toast and drowning it in syrup.

A definite improvement from yesterday, Bucky thinks.

“It’s called being cold and impersonal,” Peggy replies quietly into her teacup.

Steve’s mouth sets into a hard line when he sets down the syrup. “Well at least I don’t…”

He trails off when his eyes fall on Bucky, who is watching the exchange in silence. It’s like Steve forgot he was even there. He clears his throat and says instead, “Thank you for breakfast, Bucky.”

Bucky holds his breath when Steve takes his first bite. Half of him acknowledges that Steve will probably eat it like it’s fuel, shovel down his necessary intake and then head to work. The other half of him wants more than anything for Steve to enjoy it, and tell him as much.

What Bucky gets is something in the middle. Peggy moans around the bite of french toast—a now-familiar sound that makes heat rise to Bucky’s face—and says, “Bucky, this is wonderful.”

Finding his voice again is difficult, but he manages, “Thank you. It was my ma’s recipe.” His gaze shifts tentatively to Steve, whose first bite is still poised on the fork while he scans the front page of the newspaper.

“If you wouldn’t mind, could you send it to Angie for me? I would really love for her to try it,” Peggy says, apparently unaware of the mental anguish Bucky is presently going through.

“Sure thing,” Bucky replies, shifting in his chair, averting his eyes, and picking up his fork like _a normal human being_. Jesus, he needs to get his head in the game.

Maybe Peggy is actually _very_ aware of Bucky’s problem, because the moment Steve takes a bite, she asks, “What do you think, Steve? Good, yes?”

Steve looks up from the paper at them. “Huh? Oh, yeah, it’s great, Buck. Thank you.”

There’s that bus again, hitting Bucky square in the chest.

_Buck._

Captain America called him _Buck._

Peggy beams at him in victory, like she gets it, gets _him_ , and Bucky shoots a shy smile back to her. 

It’s just breakfast, Bucky thinks. But it’s still the first win at a new job. Steve Rogers likes Bucky’s ma’s french toast, talks about him to his...whatever Peggy is, and has a nickname for him.

Bucky could lose a limb today and it would still be a good day.

Well, maybe not a limb. He’s drastically low on them as it is, but...he’s just really fucking stoked.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ~~not~~ sorry that my Peggy is actually kinda just Hayley. 
> 
> PS Hopefully this chapter answers some of your questions re: worldbuilding. Which, I mean, I never thought I'd have to do worldbuilding for a BDSM fic. Yet here we are.

After breakfast, Steve rushes out of the apartment to book it to a meeting. He presses a kiss to the top of Peggy’s head as he leaves, and says goodbye without giving Bucky any instructions for the day.

Peggy reaches over the table and grabs the newspaper. She bypasses the news and flips it to the funny pages. As Bucky clears the table, he glances at her in confusion to figure out why she’s still here.

“Oh, goodness, my apologies. Let me help,” Peggy says when she notices him cleaning.

“You really don’t have to,” Bucky replies as he sets the plates in the sink. “I mean, it’s my job. I get paid for it.”

She pads to the kitchen and rolls up her (Steve’s) sleeves. “And I’m getting paid to live here at the expense of my own autonomy,” she replies, smiling at him despite the depth of her words. 

They wash dishes in silence, and Bucky thinks to ask her why she’s helping him when the SRM defined the roles of Lead and Support so thoroughly, but he doesn’t want to seem rude, so instead he asks, “Don’t most places have, I dunno, maids or whatever? Private chefs? Bodyguards? The whole Support/Lead thing seems...intense.”

Peggy puts a rinsed dish onto the rack. “Look at it this way: you have several dozen secret agents living in several dozen rooms of the same building, all of whom make a living saving the world on a daily basis.” She takes the next dish from Bucky, who keeps his metal hand under the water. “Their minds are filled with the world’s biggest secrets. Valuable information rests in every corner. In similar structures, maids, chefs, bodyguards are all contracted from external sources, third party companies. They become a liability. But we can’t afford to trust third parties, so we hire personal Support in-house. Our employees, our rules. So instead of a dozen people coming in and out of Steve’s apartment every day, there’s one, and that one is capable, adaptable…” She meets his eyes as she takes another dish. “...trustworthy.”

Bucky considers that, keeps his focus trained on not crushing the fragile ceramic of the plate with this metal hand. When he passes her the next dish, he says, “That still doesn’t explain the whole...sex thing.”

Peggy huffs a mirthless laugh. “Just because we’re seen as heroes doesn’t mean we’re not human. We have the same need for intimacy as anyone else, but our chosen field keeps us from seeking out fulfilling relationships. So we engineer them.”

“So what about you and Agent Rogers then?” He means for it to sound like innocent curiosity, but it comes out harsher than he intended.

Peggy takes it in stride. “When you remove the entire paradigm of romantic relationships from your life out of necessity, what’s left is a kind of...vagueness. I love Steve. I love Angie. I express that love with sex. I don’t bother defining it as platonic or romantic because those words cease to function in the life of a SHIELD Agent.” The dishes are done, and Peggy leans against the counter, arms crossed as she looks at Bucky. “We do what feels good because every day might be our last.”

Bucky pops the drain and turns around to lean against the sink also, hiding his arm behind his back. “So you...and your Support…”

“Are together? In a manner of speaking, yes. As were Steve and Natasha at one point.”

“But then Natasha got promoted. So now, Agent Rogers doesn’t want anything to do with it?”

Peggy gives him a devious smile. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. He’s just...reserved. Each Support/Lead relationship develops differently. It takes time. You’ll have to toe the waters and see what comes of it.”

“He mentioned _boundaries_ , though,” Bucky says, miming air quotes with one hand.

“To him, boundaries mean roles. Angie and I are very relaxed in our arrangement. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like an arrangement at all, but Steve doesn’t seem to want to forget that. He may seek intimacy from his Support, but he will never seek love.” Her face softens as she adds, “He has lost much in his long life. I may not condone his hesitance, but I understand it.” She smiles when she concludes, “Besides, he seems to like you.”

Bucky straightens, surprised. “Really?”

“Really. He told me your files were quite impressive and that you make a very good cheeseburger.”

“He has my files?”

“Of course. How do you think you received the position?”

Bucky shrugs. He hadn’t really thought about it, given that pieces of his memory periodically blank out on him. Trauma response, his counselor called it. Sometimes he just has to trust that his past self handled all the fine print. “I thought Natasha hired me.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. Our hiring process is more of a group effort, and the Lead provides the final decision. Natasha’s duty is to sift through employment applications and present them to Director Fury, who then gives interviews.”

Bucky remembers the interview, kind of. At the time, he was hopped up on pain meds. The room was too bright and he had trouble concentrating on Fury’s words. Apparently even when his mind has been compromised, he can still turn on the charm, because a week later he was hauled out to DC.

There’s one detail that’s been nagging at him, though, that maybe he knew at some point but he doesn’t anymore. “But I never applied.”

“No, of course not. You were nominated.”

“By who?”

“Most likely your General, after your discharge.”

“And Agent Rogers...picked me out of a stack of people?”

Peggy smiles again. It makes Bucky feel small, like a kid talking to one of his ma’s friends who’s proud of him for his better-than-average report card hanging on the fridge. “I believe it was more that you came highly recommended to him.”

Bucky can’t wrap his head around that. He’s never been highly recommended for anything in his life. “Why?”

Peggy’s smile turns into a grin. “The simple fact that you have to ask at all is _precisely_ the reason why.”

***

Bucky is reading the SRM to figure out how to send the drycleaning away when he gets a text from Steve.

_S: Hello, Bucky._

Bucky’s heart leaps into his throat, and he sits up from where he’d been sprawled out on the couch. He has exactly zero experience with texting within a professional capacity, and he contemplates Googling it before replying, but he figures a timely response is more important than an impressive-sounding one.

_B: Hello, Agent Rogers._

_S: :-)_

God, Bucky thinks, he even adds the little nose-dash to his emoticons. He really is in his nineties. Still, Steve managed more emotional expression in one text than he's given in person in the past three days, so Bucky takes what he can get. He feels a little thrill in his chest when he thinks about Steve maybe smiling down at his phone while texting him.

_S: I’ll be home earlier than expected this evening. No need to rush dinner. I just thought I would let you know so you’re not startled._

_B: The only way to startle me is by walking in with some firecrackers, sir. ;)_

Bucky watches as the ellipses bubble rises and falls for a solid minute, like Steve is typing and backspacing repeatedly. In his head, he can hear Sam say, _"Too soon, man."_

_S: I’ll keep that in mind. See you this afternoon._

Well, Bucky thought it was funny.

_B: Yes, sir._

***

By afternoon, Bucky is restless. He already emailed Angie the french toast recipe, vacuumed the apartment, and made a meal plan for the upcoming week. A _meal plan_. His own ma didn’t make meal plans, and here he is, some kind of fucked-up Suzie Homemaker cyborg wondering if he should opt for turkey meatballs instead of beef for the sake of Captain America’s cholesterol. The absurdity of the situation leads him to wonder if he's actually in a coma back in Brooklyn and this is just the world he's constructed in his stupid head.

He’s about to resort to watching daytime television when Natasha saves him.

_N: How’d you like Carter?_

It’s a tough question. On one hand, Bucky would have rather Steve fucked him into oblivion instead of her last night. On the other hand, Peggy acknowledges that Bucky actually exists, talks to him like a person instead of an employee, and seems to be the only one around here willing to stand up to Agent Rogers. Moreover, she’s the only one who can make Steve stand down.

_B: Shes alright_

_N: How are you doing today?_

Bucky stares at his phone like it struck him. Why the hell would Natasha care about how he’s doing? Before he can reply, he gets another text.

_N: I mean after last night. Was that your first time in a scene?_

Bucky, cursing himself for being a hopeless moron who had no idea he was so goddamn vanilla, switches to Google and looks up whatever the hell Natasha is talking about. Once he gets a vague idea, he sends a reply text.

_B: Yeah apparently_

_N: You did very well._

He involuntarily cracks a smile at the praise, feels his face go a bit hot, and then stifles it back down.

_B: Thanks. You up for sparring again? Rogers doesnt have me doing much yet_

_N: That’ll change once he learns to trust you. And I can’t right now. Meetings all day._

_B: Is there a Do Not Pass Go option for gaining Rogers trust?_

_N: I wish. But if what works on me works on him, he’ll break sooner or later._

Bucky remembers what Peggy told him, that he came _highly recommended_ to Steve, and he’s beginning to get an idea of who recommended him.

_B: Yeah? What works on you?_

_N: Unfairly hot martyrs._

Bucky scoffs at his phone. _Martyr._ He’s a punk from Brooklyn, a straight C student, never did a damn thing special in his life. He’s got two things he loves enough to die for—his ma and his country—and he's got the scars to prove it.

So it doesn't make him a martyr. He just has minimal regard for his own health and well-being.

_B: No wonder you fell for Rogers_

_N: Don’t knock it. You’re on your way. Do Not Pass Go and all that._

_B: How dare you insinuate that I have any interest beyond a professional relationship with Agent Rogers_

_N: Because you have eyes._

The ellipses bubble pops up again to show Natasha is still typing.

_N: Lucky for you, so does he._

And that’s when Bucky gets an idea.


	7. Chapter 7

The rest of the week goes smoothly enough. By Saturday, Bucky is going stir crazy, but Steve takes him to a business meeting to jot down notes. He has no idea what anyone is talking about, but the massive conference table sits some familiar faces, including Natasha, Fury, and Peggy. Bucky deduces that the cute brunette to Peggy’s left must be Angie, and she types her notes on an impossibly small laptop far faster than Bucky can scrawl them on a legal pad (he’s never been a great typist, now even less so because his left hand is mostly a glorified arcade claw machine—not that he’s complaining).

Bucky scans them to JARVIS to transcribe and file away. By the time they get back to the apartment, it’s too late to cook dinner, so Steve gets Vietnamese food delivered to the Tower instead. They eat in front of the TV while watching a documentary on Appalachia.  

Steve doesn’t talk much, and Bucky is too hesitant to make conversation—what kind of small talk does one make with Captain America? Bucky isn’t socially prepared for these things—so it takes a while, but Bucky eventually gets used to what he would normally perceive as awkward silences. Really it just feels like Steve is alone and Bucky is a ghost following him around.

His day off finally arrives, and Sunday is the first morning in a week that the sun is up before Bucky is. He lies in bed and listens, can hear Steve walking around the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets. Bucky is still so sleepy that for a moment it feels like a different situation entirely, a romantic one instead of a professional one. Before he can fully flesh out the thought and feel the resulting pang of disappointment, he forces himself to sit up and stretch.

Today is the day he starts toeing the water, because today is the day he doesn’t have to wear a fucking uniform.

He waits until the percolating stops and he can smell coffee from the kitchen, then he gets up to put on a pair of sweatpants. He stands in front of the mirror and forces himself to stare at his reflection without wanting to punch it or throw up. His dog tags hang from his neck, chest waxed clean from his spa day, but the aestheticians could do nothing for the scarring around his prosthetic, still puffy-red and healing. There are blotchy red burns on his side and chest, like the explosion was a negative and his body is the resulting photograph.

Just a few months ago, he was a whole-bodied person who could count his scars on both hands. Now he’s only got one hand to count on at all.

He runs his metal fingers through his hair, unable to feel the separate strands, just light pressure grazing the sensors. He musses it so that it’s attractively disheveled, then pulls his sweatpants down so that they rest an inch below the waistband of his briefs and expose too much of his hipbones.

Bucky has barely been out of Steve’s sight all week, and Steve has yet to say a damn word about the arm. He keeps it hidden as much as he can, but today is the day to set aside his trepidation and bring out the big guns. Like his ma always said, _you either play your cards or you fold ‘em_.

If Steve won’t look at him, Bucky’s gonna give him something to look at.

With a deep breath, Bucky casually enters the living room. Steve is sitting on the couch, bare feet propped up on the coffee table, a folded newspaper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Bucky has never seen him in anything other than a suit and tie in person, so the white v-neck t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms is an unfair—but not unwelcome—surprise.

“Morning,” Bucky mumbles, padding toward the kitchen.

“Morning,” Steve replies, taking a sip from his mug while glancing up at Bucky.

He does a double-take and sputters on his coffee.

“You alright, sir?” Bucky asks. A clean cup is waiting for him by the coffee pot, and he fills it while he feels Steve’s eyes bore holes into his back. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning, and his dick twitches in his pants. Bucky might be vanilla, but he knows that he loves the idea of being watched, always has. He hasn’t felt sexy in a long goddamn time, and a thrill runs up his spine.

He hears Steve shift on the couch and clear his throat. “Fine. Just...went down the wrong way.”

Bucky makes a noncommittal noise as he takes a seat on the opposite side of the couch. Steve tilts his face away to pretend to read the newspaper, but Bucky would be able to see the bright red flush on his cheeks from a mile away.

“Plans today, sir?” Bucky asks, the picture of innocence.

“It’s your day off. I’m not ‘sir’ right now,” Steve mutters to his newspaper.

Bucky grins into his cup of coffee. “So what are you then?”

“Just Steve,” he replies, curt as usual, but a tightness resonates in his voice that wasn’t there before.

Bucky continues sipping his coffee in victory and relishing Steve’s blush, which burns brighter the longer Bucky stares at him. “So, _just Steve—_ ” Not only is Bucky making Captain America _blush_ , he gets to call him _Steve_. “—what’s the plan?”

Finally Steve looks at him, meets his eyes with an unparalleled, intense glare that could either be read as _irate_ or _turned on_.

Bucky considers himself an optimist, so he’s going with the latter. He smiles at Steve in turn, defiant and unfazed.

“There is no plan,” Steve replies. “You’re free to do what you want. Get out of the Tower, see the sights.”

“Is that an order?” As it turns out, the only thing Bucky really wants is to tease Steve Rogers mercilessly. He’s kind of shocked at how easy it is to slip into his old charm now that it’s his day off, now that he feels like he’s allowed to be himself; metal arm, scars, and all. He might not be totally comfortable with his new body yet, but he can play a role. Just like he played a son, a student, and a soldier, he can play the unfairly hot martyr.

Steve takes a deep breath. “No, of course not. I just—”

“What sights do you recommend?” Bucky asks, leaning back on the couch and spreading out a little. He can feel the vibrations of the gears turning in his arm as he moves. A pang of self-consciousness hits him, but he pushes it aside. 

At that, Steve looks at him again, and this time, his eyes stop short and land on Bucky’s chest, trail down his torso and stop at his crotch. The blush spreads to Steve’s neck, and he immediately averts his eyes again.

“The Smithsonian is good,” he says, standing to pour himself another cup of coffee even though his cup is still half full.

“I hear you’ve got an exhibit there,” Bucky replies to Steve’s back.

He sees Steve’s shoulders rise and fall with a silent laugh. “It’s been years. They still won’t take it down. There’s a group of people petitioning to make it permanent.”

“Must be awful to be so adored.” Bucky means it as a joke, but a heavy silence falls between them, broken by a spoon clattering against ceramic as Steve stirs in his creamer. He doesn’t respond, so Bucky tries again.

“You know, I always took you for a black coffee drinker.”

“I was, a long time ago. For most of my life, really,” Steve replies when he returns back to the couch. “Back in the day, milk and sugar were luxuries. It was mildly caffeinated slush or nothing.” He shrugs. “No use sticking to old habits when it wasn’t my decision to make them.”

And here Bucky is, talking to Steve Rogers about _the old days_. He bites back the impulse to curl up at Steve’s feet and listen to him tell stories of growing up during the Depression.

Despite today being Bucky’s day off, he, as usual, doesn’t feel entirely welcome to continue the conversation. Steve sets his coffee down and opens up the newspaper. He doesn’t block Bucky out with it, but the gesture makes it clear that social hour is over.

Bucky’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he retrieves it to find a text from Natasha.

_N: Day off! Let’s hang._

Bucky risks a glance at Steve, who is, also as usual, in his own world. After a moment’s hesitation, Bucky types a reply.

_B: Meet you in the lobby in an hour_

***

Bucky makes it back to the Tower after nightfall. He sees Natasha back to her own quarters—a few floors down from him in her own small apartment—and she kisses him, high heels in hand and standing on her toes.

They’re both a little bit tipsy. Natasha tastes like sweet wine and chocolate from their late-night dessert at a hipster bistro they found downtown.

“Should I come in?” Bucky asks, sliding a hand down her side to rest on her hip.

Bucky couldn’t explain it if he tried, the way he feels around Natasha. It’s a kind of chemistry he’s never experienced before: sexy and fun, yet utterly platonic.

Natasha plays with the zipper of his leather jacket, coy and smiling. “No, I think you should get back to Agent Rogers. I’m sure he’s worried about you.”

“He probably hasn’t noticed I left.”

She waves a badge over the doorknob and it clicks open. Before she steps inside, she turns back and says, playfully, “Sometimes you have to look past the armor to see the man underneath.”

“Easier said than done,” Bucky replies, walking backward toward the elevator. “‘Night, Nat.”

“Goodnight, James,” Natasha says with a wink, and closes the door.

Bucky takes the elevator back up to Agent Rogers’ apartment, and expects Steve to be in bed already. When he makes it inside, though, Steve is at the dining room table, a bouquet of long-stemmed calla lilies set in front of him, along with a large pad of paper and a box of pastels. Some kind of blues or jazz Bucky doesn’t recognize is playing on the surround sound.

Bucky walks up behind him to glance at the drawing, and his jaw drops. It might as well be a photograph of the flowers in front of them. The only way he can tell it isn’t is because it’s not finished.

And he’s a little bit pissed off, because he has the SRM fucking _memorized_ and not once did it mention Captain America’s hobbies. Neither did the Smithsonian exhibit, which, yes, he and Natasha ended up seeing today. It didn’t teach him anything new or relevant, but it had left him with a sense of surreality, like Bucky’s brain couldn’t connect the exhibit to the fact that he is presently living with and working for Captain America. It hit him hardest when he made it to the shield, the climax of the entire exhibit. Bucky never thought he’d see the day that he would get to reach out and touch Captain America’s shield.

He never thought he’d see the day that he would get to reach out and touch Captain America, either, but for some reason the shield made the whole ridiculous situation so much more real.

“I didn’t know you were an artist,” Bucky says.  

Steve gestures to the seat next to him. A plain white teapot sits on a placemat with an extra cup beside it. “You can join me if you’d like.”

Bucky takes a seat at the table and pours himself a cup of tea. He grew up in a family of soda drinkers, but his ma still made him drink tea with honey when he got a sore throat. He hated it then and, as he takes a sip, he confirms that he hates it now, too.

But, Bucky thinks, when Captain America asks you to go to war, you don’t say no, so when Captain America asks you to tea, you _definitely_ don’t say no.

“There were a few years before I enlisted,” Steve begins, switching from a butter yellow pastel to chartreuse, “I had to make a living, you know? Couldn’t hold a gun, but I could hold a pencil. Drew a lot of bluesies—Tijuana bibles, they were called. They paid the best. Could afford milk and sugar on a bluesie budget.”

“Weren’t those…” Bucky trails off.

“Porn?” Steve supplies. “Yeah. Funny, filthy little comics.”

The thought of young Steve Rogers making a living drawing porn comics makes heat rise to Bucky’s face. “I’m surprised that wasn’t in the exhibit.”

Steve huffs a laugh while he draws a gentle green line down the page. “History doesn’t know about it. I used a handful of pseudonyms, submitted them to publishers by mail. Didn’t want the military finding out.”

Bucky’s voice sounds small, quiet to his own ears when he asks, “But you’re comfortable telling me about them?”

Steve sets down the chartreuse pastel and picks up goldenrod. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Paid to be my sole confidant.”

Bucky doesn’t know how to reply to that, so he sips his tea while watching Steve color in a stem.

After several minutes of silence, Steve clears his throat and furrows his brow. “I was wondering…” he begins, and Bucky’s heart speeds up. “I mean, feel free to say no. It’s definitely not part of the job description. But it’s been a long time since I had a live model, and—”

“Yes,” Bucky interrupts.

Steve looks at him, eyebrows raised, the hint of a smile on his face. “You don’t even know what I’m about to ask.”

“Doesn’t matter. The answer’s yes.”

“So you’re willing to lie still, potentially for hours, while I draw you, is what you’re agreeing to.”

Bucky adds a third item to his list: _when Captain America asks to draw you, you don’t say no._

“Of course,” Bucky replies, trying—and failing—not to sound too eager. “Just tell me when.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See endnotes for trigger warnings in this chapter.

A week passes. Steve doesn’t bring up modeling again, so Bucky doesn’t ask. Life as usual returns on Monday. Steve goes back to being _sir_ and barely speaks, and Bucky starts to get used to it. He feels more alone than he ever has in his entire life, including the weeks following his ma’s death, when he had been responsible for dealing with the aftermath because he was the only one over eighteen, and his siblings had scattered across the country to live with aunts and uncles. He had a whole house to sort through by himself, and it still felt didn't feel as empty as this apartment.

It’s not until the next Sunday that Steve comes out of his shell again.

Bucky is at the dining room table eating a bowl of cereal and reading a book—an honest-to-God _book_. From a _library_. This is what his life is now. Steve sits across from him, and Bucky grunts a hello. After a few minutes, he notices that Steve has been staring at the same article for the entire duration of breakfast, his eyes trained on the paper but unmoving.

Without looking up from the paper, Steve asks, “What’ve you got planned today?” The words come out rushed and mumbled, and a little wrinkle creases between his eyebrows.

And this is the difference, Bucky guesses, between Weekday Agent Rogers and Weekend Steve: Agent Rogers doesn’t speak unless giving a direct order, is never seen without a suit and tie, and lives by a strict routine; Steve, on the other hand, enjoys art, tells stories about his life, and even smiles on rare occasion.

Bucky holds up his copy of _A Clash of Kings_. “Several hundred pages of convoluted plot.”

“Oh, okay, well...never mind then.” He gets up from the table to wash his coffee cup.

“I meant _no_ , I don’t have plans,” Bucky says. Both Agent Rogers and Steve, Bucky notes, tend to take everything literally. “Got anything in mind?”

Over the sound of the tap running, Steve replies, “Usually on Sundays I draw. I didn’t know if you still wanted to—”

“Hell yes,” Bucky says, earmarking his page and closing his book. “When can we start?”

“I mean, now, if you want—”

“Awesome.” Bucky stands up and pulls his t-shirt over his head, then leaps over the back of the couch and lands with a bounce on the cushions. His dog tags clatter against his bare chest. “Is here good? Do you want me naked? Should I Blue Steel it?” He purses his lips together and smoulders in Steve’s general direction.

Then—and it yanks Bucky’s heart right up into his throat—Steve _laughs_.

For the first time in the two weeks Bucky has lived with the guy, he actually makes him laugh. It’s a big one, head thrown back and crater-like dimples on his face, hand covering his chest.

“No, no, nothing like that,” he replies, still grinning, and makes his way over to the living area, pulling a stool from the breakfast nook with him. “Sit here,” he says, patting the stool.

Bucky stands up and slides onto it, and Steve takes a step back to analyze the position.

“May I…” he begins, hands hovering over Bucky’s arm like he’s afraid to touch it.

 _Put your hands all over me? Of fucking course_ , Bucky wants to reply, but instead he says, “Sure.”

Steve props Bucky’s arm on his knee, and he can feel the pressure sensors, the low whirring of its movement in the silent room. Bucky can feel, too, the heat radiating from Steve’s body from where he stands between Bucky’s legs. He slides his hand up, against the direction of the plates, and slows at Bucky’s shoulder where metal meets flesh. His fingers touch the scarring gently, his head tilted as he traces the lines of the skin graft, trails down Bucky’s chest like he’s mapping it all in his head first. His touch is gentle, soothing, and it feels like all the air has been taken out of the room.

“Is this okay?” Steve asks, voice low, a rough palm memorizing the lines and planes of Bucky’s body.

Bucky nods, all his wit and charm stopped up in his throat because Steve is _touching him_.

Steve rounds the stool and presses at the small of Bucky’s back so that he sits up straighter. He positions his other arm like the first, and when he makes his way back to the front, he tilts Bucky’s chin up so that their eyes meet.

Just a minute ago, Steve was laughing, and now he’s looking at Bucky like Bucky is something worth looking at.

Steve throws him another curveball when he says, “You are so beautiful.” It comes out quiet, a measure of awe in his voice.

This is it. This is the moment that Bucky dies. He survived getting blown up, but there’s no way he can survive this, being the center of Steve Rogers’ entire attention, praised by him.

Bucky can hear his heartbeat in his ears, and he has no idea what to say. Steve is standing so close to him, all he has to do is lean forward...

Steve pulls away, spell broken, and grimaces like he did something wrong. He runs a hand over his face while clearing his throat. “I’m sorry. Are you sure you want to do this? It’s kind of boring, and it’s your day off…”

Bucky’s heart slowly ebbs away from critical mass, and his voice is tight as he replies, “No, I mean, yeah, totally, it’s no problem. Natasha’s busy today anyway.”

Steve sits down cross-legged on the carpet and props himself up against the entertainment stand. He reaches beside him to open a bottom drawer and pull out a sketchpad and a box of charcoal sticks. “I’m glad you two are getting along so well.”

Bucky can’t tell if he detected a hint of jealousy in Steve’s tone or if he imagined it. He can’t really pay much attention to anything right now because his mind is still reeling. “Yeah...she’s great.”

As Steve flips to a blank page, Bucky catches glimpses of sketches—mostly still lifes, flowers, and a couple of what might be abstract drawings. He sets the sketchpad on his knee and glances at Bucky once before making a sweeping line across the page with a pencil. Bucky watches him, perched on the stool, and quickly begins slipping from what-the-hell-just-happened to his blank place like he used to: hours upon hours lying flat on his stomach or elbows propped against a window ledge in sniper towers, forcing himself to stay vigilant despite his mind constantly trying to wander off.

Bucky isn’t good at much, but he’s great at taking orders and sitting still, so he’s more than a little happy that Steve is making use of what few talents he has.

***

Every day the job gets a little easier, and Bucky falls into its simple routine faster than he’d expected.

Steve begins to—Bucky doesn’t want to say _thaw_ , but that’s really the only way to describe it. They talk, sometimes, when Steve draws him. He never lets Bucky see the pictures, but Bucky is just glad that they have something in common, some foundation on which to build.

One night, Bucky finally gets up the courage over dinner to ask Steve about his day. The first couple times, Steve had replied with a simple, “Good,”and let silence fall over them again. Then, on a day when Steve had given no indication of his mood but for the tense set of his jaw, he downed an entire beer before dinner and replied, “Not great.”

“What happened?” Bucky had asked, setting down a plate of steak and baked potatoes in front of him.

And so Steve told him. He explained that he distrusted Stark Industries’ sponsorship of and involvement in the affairs of SHIELD, namely the interference of a man named Tony Stark (whom Bucky vaguely remembers hearing about in the hospital from an incredibly polite businesswoman with freckles). Steve ranted the entire way through dinner and dessert, and then leaned on the kitchen counter as Bucky did the dishes. They ended up on the couch, talking well into the night.

Bucky, for his part, kept quiet. Growing up, he was generally obnoxious and outspoken and did whatever it took to get what he wanted out of people. If someone or something wasn’t bending to Bucky’s will, he threw a fit. Then came the brothers and sisters, and that mentality went out the window, birth after merciless birth. Sometimes, his ma reminded him, you just have to shut the fuck up and set yourself aside.

After that, Bucky felt more comfortable asking Steve about his day, until they reached a point where he didn’t even need to ask before Steve was volunteering information, starting his nightly rant about Stark from the moment he handed Bucky his suit jacket as he walked in the door.

Everything was going so well.

For a while.

The first nightmare hits on a random Tuesday. Even as Bucky wakes up screaming, it begins fading from his memory, only flashes of explosions and gunfire and the sick splattering of blood remaining. He moves to cover his face and stifle the residual sobs, but only one arm moves. He doesn’t notice.

He also fails to notice the insistent pounding on his door, or Steve’s voice as he shouts, “Bucky? Bucky, are you okay?”

He’s gone. His arm is gone. He’s back there, covered in dirt and blood. Ringing in his ears. Can’t breathe. Screaming. Women, children, screaming. His ma, his siblings, screaming.

They’re gone. They’re all gone.

The doorframe splinters as Steve bursts through it. “Bucky?” he asks, rushing to the bed and putting a hand on either side of Bucky’s face. “Look at me, Bucky. Look at me.”

Bucky tries, but all he can see is Captain America: blond hair, blue eyes, a hero’s visage. He must be hallucinating.

They got him again. Maybe he never left. Maybe he’s bagged up and bound in a cell somewhere, dreaming delirious about Captain America coming to his rescue. After all these years, the fantasy has never died.

Captain America stares into his eyes like he’s trying to see inside them, into Bucky’s reality, and thumbs softly over his cheekbone. “You’re not wherever you think you are. You’re here. With me.”

Bucky laughs at the absurdity of it all. His entire body is trembling and his stomach feels permanently poised at the apex of rolling down a hill. His face is wet with sweat and tears. It seems so real, the feel of steady, warm hands on him.

“You’re Captain America,” Bucky mumbles.

“No, I’m not. I’m Steve Rogers. I’m your—”

“Hero?”

“ _No_. I’m your boss.” He runs a hand through Bucky’s hair and adds, softer, “And I’m your friend.”

Then, like being dunked in ice water, Bucky’s world shifts. He’s sitting on a mattress, blankets kicked off the end, wearing nothing but a pair of briefs. His shoulder aches from its state of phantom limb lock. The doorframe is completely shattered and splinters of wood litter the ground.

Steve is silhouetted by the hallway light like an angel. Bucky grips Steve’s wrist with his working hand and starts sobbing so hard that he can’t breathe, falling forward into Steve’s chest, soaking the white cotton of his shirt with his tears. Steve wraps his arms around him and whispers, “It’s okay. It’s over. You’re safe,” over and over again.

Bucky doesn’t know how long it takes before his breath evens out again and he disentangles himself from Steve, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he says, turning his face away. “Must’ve fucked up my meds.”

“It’s okay,” Steve says, still poised at the edge of the bed.  “If you’re okay, though, I guess I should—” He makes a move to leave, but Bucky grabs his arm.

“No, I—” He doesn’t know how to say it, how to ask Steve to stay with him. “I can’t be alone right now.”

Steve nods. “I’ll call Natasha.”

Bucky shakes his head, looks at Steve with pleading eyes. “No. Please. Just...stay with me. I won’t tell anyone. I won’t ask for it again. I just…” Bucky trails off, realizing how pitiful and desperate he sounds.

Steve stares at him, hesitating. “Alright,” he says, and opens his mouth to add something, but then closes it again and lays Bucky down, shifts him over so that they both fit on the bed. Steve pulls the covers over them and curls his body around Bucky’s, slotting together like they’ve done this a thousand times before.

In Bucky’s head, they have.

He barely has time to enjoy it, though, as he falls quickly into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning this chapter for PTSD flashbacks/anxiety attacks.


	9. Chapter 9

Bucky stares at his bedside table clock like it bit him. It reads ten a.m. and it takes him a solid minute to remember what happened last night. Steve is nowhere to be found. Today is definitely a weekday and Bucky definitely didn’t wake up to make breakfast.

_Fuck._

He grabs his phone from the charger. Someone had set it to silent and turned off all the alarms. The only alert he has is an email to accept an appointment whose description reads, _Sgt. Barnes, RM 1208, 11am._

He feels the blood drain from his face.

Floor twelve is Human Resources. Bucky is seriously about to get fired.

He gets out of bed and throws on his clothes. His flesh hand is shaking too much to tie his tie but he ropes it around his neck anyway. When he runs out of his room, a blur of red in his peripheral vision stops him in his tracks so abruptly that he slips on the tile.

Natasha is sitting on the couch folding towels, staring at him quizzically. She’s wearing a crisp red dress that matches her lipstick, pressed and ever-professional, and she looks as beautiful and perfect as always. Bucky kind of hates her for having her shit together all the time.

“Good morning?” she asks, unsure.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Bucky asks.

She shrugs. “Covering for you.”

“Why?”

“Because Agent Rogers asked me to.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I assumed you were taking a sick day or something.”

“I have sick days?”

“Did you seriously not read your contract?”

Bucky runs a hand through his messy hair. “Did you schedule a meeting for me at eleven?”

“No. Must have been Agent Rogers.”

Bucky’s knees feel weak. _“Fuck.”_

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s not a big deal. You’re allowed to take a sick day.”

“I didn’t take a sick day. I slept in.”

Natasha pauses. “Oh.”

“Yeah. I’ll be back later.” He grabs his keys and wallet from the table by the door and leaves.

***

Bucky is still getting used to the utterly absurd architecture of the Tower. It is so needlessly complex that it borders on inefficient, and he has to go all the way down to the lobby to get to the second set of elevators that go back up to the offices.

He rushes past a Starbucks and then stops to backtrack and buy Steve a coffee. Thank God for the SRM, which actually specified his Starbucks order: a venti caramel macchiato with extra whip cream, because Steve likes a little bit of coffee in his sugar.

A couple minutes and one long-ass elevator ride to the top of the Tower later, Bucky is staring down the receptionist in front of the secured area that houses the Agents’ group of offices. His blood pressure is so high that he’s about to put his metal fist through her desk. She refuses to look up at him even though he’s standing right in front of her and has cleared his throat _twice._

Eventually he puts his badge in front of her face and says, “I need to see Agent Rogers. I’m his Support.”

She glares at him and purses her lips together. Without a word, she buzzes him in.

 _“Thank you,”_ he says as he tries not to rip the door off its hinges.

Steve’s office is next to Peggy’s. She smiles at him as he passes, and he waves at her. He barges straight through the door labeled _Senior Agent Steven G. Rogers_ and says, “I’m sorry.”

Steve looks up at him from behind a large desk that would overlook the city if it weren’t so high up. All Bucky can see are clouds dotting the sky. Steve stops typing, his hands hovering over the keyboard.

“...sir,” Bucky adds.

“For what?” Steve asks, and Bucky wonders briefly if he dreamed what happened last night. Then he remembers the splintered door frame and the shattered wood over the carpet of his bedroom.

“Last night,” Bucky replies. He sets the coffee on Steve’s desk like some kind of sacrifice for his forgiveness. “And this morning.” When Steve doesn’t respond, Bucky continues, “I swear, I just fucked up my meds. This is all really new and I’ve just had so many concussions I don’t catch on to things quick anyway and I’ve never had a meds schedule before and it won’t happen again, I—”

“Bucky,” Steve interrupts with a placating hand toward him, “you’re going to be late for your appointment.”

Bucky opens his mouth to reply, but instead collapses onto a chair in front of Steve’s desk, puts his face in his hands, and groans. He is _so_ fired.

“Do you have a problem with therapists?” Steve asks.

Bucky looks at him from between his fingers. “What?”

“I set you a therapy appointment.”

Bucky’s thoughts grind to a halt. “Why?”

Steve gives him a look that says: _Do I really have to answer that?_

“Right. Yeah,” Bucky replies, nodding and letting out the breath he’d been holding.

“If you’re uncomfortable or would rather not, you can cancel, but,” Steve averts his eyes by looking at his monitor and clicking around at random, “I thought it might help.”

Bucky has to reel his mind back before he can ask, “So I’m not fired?”

He’s not really sure what he expects Steve to say. Maybe some comforting words or a warm, understanding look. Instead, Steve still doesn’t look up from his monitor as he replies, “Of course not. That’s just poor business ethics.”

Bucky stares at him and wonders if it had also been also poor business ethics for Agent Rogers to fall asleep holding him last night. Guilt weighs in his chest along with a strange flicker of resentment.

“Alright,” Bucky says finally, and stands from the chair. “I’ll see you at dinner, sir.”

When he reaches the threshold, Steve asks, “Oh, and Bucky?”

Bucky stops and turns back.

“Thank you for the coffee,” Steve says, looking up from his monitor and smiling in a way that makes Bucky feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

Bucky forces himself to smile back and replies, “Sure thing, sir,” before heading to his appointment.

***

Bucky’s therapist is named Dr. Samson—”Call me Leo,” he’d said—with spiky green hair. He’s a handsome older man who looks like he’s with SHIELD for a reason of the superhero variety, and maybe in another place or another time, Bucky would have immediately started flirting with him. What can he say, he has a type.

The set-up is different from the psychological interviews Bucky had to do just to get this gig in the first place. The memories of the rushed entrance process are hazy and he couldn’t remember his shrinks' names if he tried. He only remembers charming his way—successfully, he might add—through the process.

Like always, Bucky plays along. He answers Leo’s seemingly innocuous questions and glosses over the events of the night prior. When his hour is up, they shake hands and Leo makes Bucky an appointment for the same time next week.

When he leaves the Human Resources department, he doesn’t feel any different. By the time he gets back to the apartment, though, there’s an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Natasha is still there when he returns, scooting some chopped-up vegetables from a cutting board into a slow cooker. As he toes off his shoes, he notices that his bedroom door has already been fixed.

“How’d it go?” Natasha asks. Her voice is flat, complacent, but Bucky thinks he knows her well enough now to suss out that she’s genuinely concerned.

“He made me see a therapist,” Bucky replies, collapsing face-first onto the couch. It’s only a slight lie. He could have said no, but he went anyway, and now he feels like a kicked-over sandcastle—his structural integrity has been a fucking facade this whole damn time.

He deserved to get fired today. The psychologists who gave him the green light fucked up and he should have gotten canned after shit hit the fan last night. Agent Rogers should have at least reprimanded him today, told him to get his shit together. Instead, he made Bucky a therapy appointment under the guise of _proper business ethics._

Bucky doesn’t even know what that _means_.

He feels rather than sees Natasha kneel down next to him on the floor by the couch. She combs a gentle hand through his hair and leans down to kiss his head. “You’ll be okay,” she says with more compassion than she usually has. “Just because Agent Rogers is your Lead doesn’t mean you can’t let him help you.”

Bucky turns his head so he can see her. “Did you ever let him help you?”

She smiles at him, a little mischievous, and says, “I did, yeah.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Probably not.”

Bucky lets that settle in his head before he asks, “So how did you get him to…”

“Play along?” Natasha asks.

Bucky nods.

“I figured out Agent Rogers is a man of strictness and order. He prefers good boys and girls.” She leans in conspiratorially and whispers, “But he only ever does anything about bad ones.”

Bucky thinks about that, and it gives him an idea. A little one, just to, as Peggy had said, toe the waters. Poke around a bit and see what happens. If Steve wouldn’t fire him for last night, there’s no way he would fire him just for exploring the details of the Lead/Support agreement.

***

That evening, Bucky is splayed out on the couch watching TV while Steve draws him. He isn’t paying much attention; nervous excitement courses through him, and it’s an excellent distraction from the unsettling guilt still weighing heavy in the back of his mind.

He reminds himself of what Natasha said about being bad, the way Steve looks at him when he walks around shirtless on his day off, how strict he was with Bucky on his first day.

Bucky glances from the television to Steve, who periodically looks at Bucky before training his eye back to the page. Specifically, Steve seems to be drawing Bucky’s leg, the way the fabric of his pants bunch around his hips. He’s been apathetically glancing at Bucky’s crotch for the better part of the last few minutes.

So, like before, Bucky decides to give him something to look at.

Heart pounding in his chest, he moves his hand to his dick. The movement is tentative, slow, watching Steve out of the corner of his eye, and he’s already a little bit hard in his pant leg. He rubs his palm against it and fidgets in his seat, biting his bottom lip.

He readjusts himself when he gets hard enough so that his cock is straining against the fly of his pants, and he trails his fingers up and down the length of it, watching Steve stare at the pad of paper on his lap.

The moment Steve notices, his hand stops moving. Bucky can see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, and the tension in the room grows suddenly thick. He doesn’t say anything, but a pink flush blossoms over his cheeks all the way down to his neck. He keeps drawing.

Bucky unbuckles his belt, thumbs open his button, and slowly unzips his fly. Steve’s hand stills on the page and watches as Bucky reaches into his pants to stroke himself. He’s fully hard now just from the thought of Steve watching, goes slow and steady and thinks about how Steve would react if he just had an orgasm right here, right now, right in front of him on a random weekday evening.

The thought alone almost makes it happen.

“Bucky,” Steve says, setting his sketchpad on the coffee table. His face is stoic, set the way it usually is before he has his coffee, or when he’s giving a speech. It’s like a mask, and Bucky can never tell what’s underneath.

“Yes, sir?” Bucky asks, a little fucked-out and enjoying this way too much.

“I don’t think this is appropriate.”

Bucky revels in the small defiance, the lurch of conflict in him to stop because he knows what he’s doing is wrong. But he’s gonna do it anyway. “You sure, sir?” Bucky looks at him and smiles, feels a pulse of pleasure in his cock when he makes eye contact with Steve while touching himself. “‘Cause my signature’s on a dotted line somewhere saying it is.”

 _“Sergeant,”_ Steve replies in his serious-business voice that he reserves for when he’s being extra professional. It’s what he calls Bucky in meetings sometimes, when they’re in front of other people.

“I’m not hearing the magic word.” Bucky fucks himself in his fist a little faster, doesn’t bother biting back the little hitches in his breath. He lets his head hit the back of the couch and closes his eyes, puts on a nice show. He pushes the elastic of his briefs to the base of his cock until it’s out in the open, throbbing-hard and shining with precome. When he starts to pull at himself again, it makes little wet noises in his fist.

“This isn’t a good idea,” Steve says, but his voice is strained.

“Yeah?” Bucky asks. He meets Steve’s gaze, challenging. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Steve’s jaw clenches as he keeps his face trained to blankness, but there’s a darkness in his eyes. His lips are cherry-red and he licks them wet. One of his hands is gripping a couch cushion until his knuckles turn white. “We talked about this.”

“Yeah, I remember. Punishment and all that.” Bucky is a little breathless now, twisting a bit at the head. He grins when he says, “I took that as a promise, not a threat.” For good measure, he adds a syrupy-sweet, _“Sir.”_

"This is your last warning, Sergeant Barnes," Steve says. His body is tensed, like he's barely holding himself together.

Smug, Bucky replies, "Or what,  _Agent Rogers?"_

He only gets a brief flicker of Steve’s cold, blank expression turning hot and angry before he reaches out and pulls at Bucky’s tie. He manhandles Bucky over his lap so that Bucky's face is full of taupe throw-pillow and his cock is rubbing up against Steve’s leg.

With one hand, Steve threads his fingers through Bucky’s hair and grips it tight. With the other, he yanks down Bucky’s pants and underwear until they’re bunched up around his thighs. He’s propped up, bare-assed on Steve’s lap and it makes him so hot that he can barely breathe.

Steve runs a palm up and down the back of Bucky’s thigh. He squeezes it, appraising, and says, “Tell me the rules.”

Bucky grits out, “RYG. I read the fine print. Just fucking do it alread—”

Steve interrupts him with a hard slap to his ass. It feels like an electric current runs up his entire body, and Bucky gasps in surprise.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that. Understood?” His hand is on Bucky’s ass over the welt it left, forcing the sharp sting to turn into a dull throb.

He doesn’t want Steve to stop, can’t let him stop when this is exactly what he wanted, and it feels better than he ever expected.

Bucky grips the couch in his fists and says, “No, I think you need to say it louder.”

Steve lands a hard slap to Bucky’s other cheek. The crack echoes in the room and Bucky yelps this time. “Was that loud enough?”

 _“Fuck,”_ Bucky groans, eyes squeezing shut. Part of him wants to hold out. The other part of him wants to come all over Steve’s expensive black trousers.

Like Steve can read his mind, he says, “And you don’t have permission to come. Not until you learn your lesson.”

Bucky can’t control his hips as they grind against Steve like a dog in heat. His words come out needy. “Maybe you’re not a very good teacher. What’s the lesson again?”

Steve lifts his hand and brings it down on Bucky’s ass, the blows falling in quick succession as he says, “It’s not…” _Slap._ “...nice…” _Slap._ “...to…” _Slap._ “...tease.” _Slap._

Bucky is delirious with want. He’s so close that he can taste it, so close that he doesn’t have any more wit or words but, _“Oh fuck, oh fuck—”_

“What’s the matter?” Steve asks, yanking Bucky’s hair back. “You dish it out but can’t take it?”

Bucky’s ass is on fire, his cock is throbbing and leaking a filthy wet stain onto Steve’s pants. He fucks into it on impulse, whines out a wordless response.

“That’s what I thought,” Steve says, and slaps him once more, so hard that it nearly pushes Bucky out of his lap. “Learned your lesson yet?”

Bucky nods, pleads, “Yes, please. Please let me come. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Just... _please.”_

Steve removes his hand from Bucky’s ass. His skin stings, burns, throbs. When Steve brings his hand back, he pulls at one cheek and settles a wettened thumb over Bucky’s hole, circling it slowly. “It sounds like you forgot your manners, Sergeant.”

Bucky lets out a loud, shocked moan at the touch. He reels his voice in and chokes out, “Sir. Please, sir. Please I need to come, sir, please just—”

“You may,” Steve says, pushing his thumb just enough that it breaches Bucky’s rim.

Bucky’s orgasm hits him like a goddamn freight train. He can’t control himself, breath stopped up in his throat keeping him from shouting. He comes in heavy spurts all over himself and Steve’s leg and the couch.

Steve lets go of Bucky’s hair and they sit in silence as they both catch their breath. Bucky can feel a promising hard-on pressing into his side, and if he weren’t so spent, he’d probably get on his knees and lick up the mess until Steve puts his cock down his throat. Maybe he should offer that. Then maybe he should ask for more.

But the possibility also occurs to Bucky that he’s in _actual_ trouble, and maybe Steve is angry with him. Maybe Bucky pushed too far, got too mouthy. Maybe, in toeing the water, he actually flung himself into the ocean.

He only has to panic for a minute, because then Steve shifts around, moves Bucky like a ragdoll until they’re both standing. Bucky’s knees are wobbly as he pulls his pants up and buttons them.

Steve still has that stoic, unreadable expression on his face, but Bucky thinks he sees a softness in his eyes. He tilts Bucky’s head up by his chin and asks, “How do you feel?”

Bucky snorts a laugh. “Good. Just...really good.”

“Did you enjoy that?” Steve asks as he thumbs over Bucky’s cheek. His palm is hot, his touch gentle.

Bucky nods, stares at Steve’s lips and wonders if it would be okay to kiss him, or if that, somehow, would be too far.

“Did you?” Bucky ventures. In response, Steve smiles, runs a hand down Bucky’s arm and threads their fingers together before guiding him into Bucky’s bedroom. He remembers what Natasha said about letting Steve take care of him, and he wonders if maybe the Lead/Support relationship is intended to be mutually beneficial. A warmth spreads through his chest at the feel of Steve’s hand in his, relaxing in the knowledge finally settling in his gut that he didn’t fuck up last night as bad as he thought he did.

By the time they make it to his room, Bucky’s mind is thick, drowsy, and satisfied. Steve strips him of his clothes in silence, puts them in the hamper, and then settles Bucky onto the bed, facedown.

He leaves momentarily, but then the mattress dips as Steve settles in between his legs. Bucky hears a cap opening and then a cool wetness drips onto the welts of his ass and thighs. Steve’s hands are strong as they rub the lotion in. It smells like lavender and Bucky starts to lose focus, especially when Steve puts some on his back and massages up his spine, thumbs pushing into the knots of his shoulders. Bucky sinks into the mattress like liquid, the weight of the day escaping him, and doesn’t even notice when he falls asleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ughhh what is life. I've been busy (??) and now this week I have a surprise conference (???) I have to go to. Which, despite being oddly apt for this chapter, will not involve Steve Rogers. :(

Meetings are God’s way of testing Bucky’s attention span. He’s great at paying attention when it comes to cooking, reading, sniping, or really anything where he has a singular focus. He can’t, however, focus on the meetings Steve drags him to because he doesn’t know what anyone is even talking about. He had to sign pages and pages of trade secret gibberish to get this gig, but if someone held him at knifepoint and asked him for intel, he’d say, _You’re shit outta luck unless you wanna know if Captain America wears boxers or briefs._

(The answer, of course, is boxers.)

But Bucky tries not to think of Steve in boxer shorts while he’s at a conference table that’s so long he can barely hear the people at the other end of it. A hologram in the center of the room displays a presentation, something about determining whether SHIELD should be acquired by Stark Industries. It’s a pretty important meeting, Bucky assumes, because Fury isn’t sitting at the head of the table like he usually is; he’s one seat to the side. Instead, the head is occupied by some guy named Alexander Pierce, who presides over the Board of Directors. At least, that’s what Bucky thinks Steve told him one night over dinner, complaining about how Pierce has too much influence over the organization and its assets. Despite Steve’s obvious dislike of the Stark acquisition, he hasn’t spoken up once since the meeting began.

Peggy, however, has already argued the idea down to the point where Fury had to say, “Agent Carter, we’ll continue this discussion offline.”

She looked like she was about to stand up and deck him. Bucky wouldn’t put it past her.  

Bucky hasn’t had a chance to process everything that happened last night, hasn’t been alone long enough to dwell on analyzing every word out of Steve’s mouth or lack thereof. He’d woken up alone to the sound of his alarm, and Steve’s bedroom door was closed when he came out to make breakfast. Steve barely glanced at him as he shoveled down his food, his newspaper untouched as he rushed them out the door to make it to the meeting on time. When Bucky winced as he sat down at the conference table, it was a bittersweet reminder. He has no idea what to think, what to feel; getting spanked raw turned out to really hit the spot, and all he can hope is that Steve enjoyed it as much as Bucky did.

Bucky doodles on his legal pad, kind of zoned out, when he feels someone watching him. He looks up and finds a man across the table staring right at him. The man doesn’t even bother looking away when Bucky notices, like a polite person would do. His white dress shirt is tailored in a way that it stretches over his bulging muscles, almost as impressive as Steve’s, but not quite. His hands are too big and rough to look like they should be holding something as delicate as a pen. The skin of his face is pockmarked, and a scar runs over his eyebrow. His hair is jet-black even though he’s older, and when Bucky stares at him for a few seconds, a mean grin stretches across his stubbled jaw. He doesn’t look like another corporate SHIELD goon, Bucky thinks as he looks away. He automatically tries harder to pay attention now that someone is paying attention to him.

Steve and Bucky sit beside each other, and the conference table is so crammed with people that their thighs are touching. Steve listens intently to the heated debate between Fury and Carter, who remains undeterred in vocalizing her anti-Stark position. She tosses Fury and Pierce a terse, “Right, because SHIELD is a for-profit corporation. Have we considered approaching Walmart for a potential merger as well? I, for one, think we would all look dashing in blue vests.”

Everyone in the room is paying careful, albeit tense attention, except for Bucky and the man across from him. Natasha is nowhere to be found, so while Pierce replies with a dismissive, monotone retort and clicks through a few more slides, Bucky takes his phone out of his pocket and texts Steve: _Whos the lug head?_

Steve’s phone lights up on the table and it catches his attention. Once he reads the text, he inconspicuously looks around the room, and his eyes land on the man across from Bucky, who, seeing Steve notice him, finally reverts his gaze back to Pierce.

Steve replies: _Rumlow. He’s one of Pierce’s men._

_B: Pierce has his own men?_

_S: SHIELD is complicated._

_B: I had no idea_

_S: Very funny._

_B: So whys he looking at me like im the last donut in the box?_

Bucky watches from his peripheral vision as Steve reads the text and his lips twitch in an effort not to smile.

_S: I think you know the answer to that._

So sue him, Bucky has poor impulse control when it comes to pushing Steve’s buttons.

_B: Im not sure I do. Can you elaborate?_

Steve side-eyes Bucky, and startles when Pierce says, “Gentlemen, am I interrupting your discussion?”

“No, sir,” Steve replies, and glares at Bucky, who has to cover his mouth with his hand to keep from laughing.

Pierce continues his presentation and Steve sets his phone on the table while turning slightly away from Bucky to make it apparent that the conversation is over.

Rumlow’s phone vibrates and rings loudly. He picks it up, then excuses himself from the meeting. Pierce doesn’t say a word, and Bucky can feel the irritation coming off Steve in waves.

So Bucky decides to kill two birds with one stone, in a sense. Maybe, he reasons, if Steve _did_ have fun last night, Bucky being unapologetically himself would at least lessen the agonizing tension of this godforsaken meeting. If Steve _didn’t_ have fun last night, Bucky continues to push his buttons, and he actually does get in trouble, then, well...at least he won’t have to speculate anymore.

He texts _: Buzzkill. Afraid youll get detention?_

Steve glances at his phone but doesn’t move to reply, so Bucky tries again.

_B: You werent such a goodie two-shoes last night_

Steve glances at it again, but this time his eyes widen minutely when he sees it, and he grabs the phone to bring it below the table. Bucky buzzes with nervous excitement as he watches Steve type out a quick reply.

_S: Bucky that’s inappropriate. >:(_

And now it’s too fun not to keep going.

_B: Guess youll just have to punish me again_

Bucky watches Steve clench his jaw in frustration.

_S: Don’t tempt me._

And really, what’s Steve going to do? Yell at him in front of a room full of people? Like Sam always says: go big or go home.

_B: I guess that means I shouldnt tell you how often I think about sucking your cock_

Fire-engine red is a good description for the flush going all the way down to Steve’s neck.

_S: BUCKY_

_B: Settled between your knees on the couch. Letting you grab my hair and fuck my face until I cant breathe_

Steve clicks off his screen and continues watching Pierce’s presentation instead of acknowledging Bucky at all. His knuckles are turning white around his phone.

Bucky is not deterred.

_B: Sometimes I think about you bending me over this conference table and fucking me_

_B: Gagging me with a tie so I dont make too much noise_

_B: Id come all over the table I bet_

_B: And then youd make me lick it up_

When Bucky sets his phone down in triumph, Steve’s lips purse into a thin line. Bucky watches Steve’s willpower slowly break over the span of a minute, two minutes…

Steve spins his phone around in his hand and reads the texts. His facial expression doesn’t change, but Bucky revels in the darkening pink of the tips of his ears.

His thumbs hover over the keys before he clicks off his phone again and sets it on the table, face down this time.

And, fuck, Bucky is kind of high on it, getting a rise out of stodgy Agent Rogers in his pressed suit and tie during a two-hour meeting where nothing gets accomplished anyway. Bucky is dumb in his own excitement, like the time he almost got arrested for throwing cherry bombs into an abandoned building with his friends when he was sixteen. He knew it was a bad idea, knew his ma would be fucking furious with him, but he did it anyway.

Bucky never did learn his lesson.

Steve’s hand his gripping his own knee, and Bucky reaches out, takes Steve’s hand in his, and guides it to his cock, hard in the leg of his pants.

He expects Steve to jerk his hand back and give Bucky a seething look, or maybe get so mad that he excuses both of them and hauls Bucky out of this dreadful meeting entirely to punish him properly. The fear of getting fired still hovers in the back of his mind, just like the fear of getting arrested when he’d been tossing the cherry bombs, but also like then, it seems incredibly far-fetched and totally secondary to his adrenaline rush. He likes pushing the boundaries, seeing what makes Steve react. He wants to see Steve lose it again like he did last night, snap until he gets angry and handsy and maybe roughs Bucky up a little.

Natasha had told Bucky that he should learn to want to be good, but she had also tipped him off to being bad. And she was right: being bad is what gets Steve’s attention. Being bad gets Bucky what he wants.

Steve does the last thing Bucky expects: he presses his palm against Bucky’s erection and strokes it through his pants. It takes Bucky by such surprise that he has to stifle a gasp and he almost crushes the edge of the conference table in his metal hand.

Steve continues watching the presentation, face set in the same calm, almost apathetic expression he usually wears but for a devious glint in his eye that no one but Bucky would notice. He continues jerking Bucky’s cock in subtle, slow movements.

God, it’s pathetic how close Bucky is to coming already, it’s like he’s a teenager again getting his first handy in his ma’s old station wagon by a girl whose name he forgot but who always smelled like strawberries. It was around the time of the cherry bombs, which just goes to show what kind of effect Steve really has on him. He doesn’t think straight around Steve, _can’t_ think straight around him, is just giddy-happy and stupid, and whenever he looks at him it makes his heart hurt in a different way than when he first started this job. Before, he’d been all starry-eyed about Captain America, but now it’s about _Steve_ : Steve who gets bedhead and Steve who likes to draw and Steve who is complex and interesting and beautiful.

And, _fuck,_ kinky as hell.

Maybe it’s the fact that Steve is giving him a quick, dirty handjob under the table at an important meeting; or maybe it’s because Steve is finally touching him and looking smug and sexy as fuck about it, but before Bucky knows it, he stifles a gasp and comes in his pant leg. He bites his lip so hard to keep from making noise that he tastes blood, and he feels his metal hand leave little notches in the wood of the conference table. Steve continues stroking him through his orgasm until Bucky’s body goes pliant and he slumps against his chair, then he lets go to slide his pen back into its slot while everyone else begins shuffling their possessions as well.

Fury says, “Thank you, Mr. Pierce, for joining us. Unless anyone but Agent Carter has any additional questions, we’ll go ahead and wrap it up for today.”

Steve gets up from the table, tucks his padfolio under his arm and, when Bucky doesn’t move, glances back at him. With a small twitch of his lips, he says, “Are you coming, Sergeant Barnes?”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH GOD what happened to my life? Everything got busy and crazy, so sorry for the sporadic posting. (*whispers creepily* but remember that I luhh u 5eva.)

After the morning’s unexpected under-table handjob and a change of clothes— _totally worth it_ —the rest of the day drags on as Bucky follows Steve around from meeting to meeting. There are just _so many_ of them, and they’re all about the same topic. Eventually Bucky starts to get the idea that this SHIELD/Stark merger is a bigger deal than he initially thought.

It becomes a bit suspicious to Bucky that Steve is so vehemently anti-merger, yet in every single meeting, he doesn’t speak up. He’s talked Bucky’s ear off about it nonstop for weeks, but remains silent in front of Fury and everyone else.

Bucky begrudgingly behaves himself the rest of the day. He picks up donuts and gets Steve coffee and refills his water, all the small things that are in his job description that he surprisingly doesn’t hate doing at all. At first it was tedious, meaningless, being an errand boy. But he likes it when Steve looks at him and thanks him and smiles. He likes when Steve meets his eyes during meetings, and he gets to wonder if he’s thinking the same thing Bucky is: about last night, about how their relationship is changing, about what might happen tonight or tomorrow or the next day.

Mostly in these meetings, while Bucky pretends to pay attention and take notes, he thinks about how bad he’s going to have to be to get Steve to fuck him senseless.

They have lunch with Peggy and Angie in Peggy’s office where there’s a little circular table. Paperwork is spread all around them on the floor in neat piles. Peggy barely touches her food while she rants in Steve’s general direction about the merger.

“I have nothing against Stark Industries,” she says. “In fact, before this...bozo Iron fellow took over, I’d been good acquaintances with his father. But since Howard passed, the company’s begun dabbling in the kind of weaponry that can destroy an entire planet. We are no longer in the Cold War and there is no reason SHIELD should be aligning with such—”

“I know,” Steve says, terse. “I agree.”

Peggy stares daggers at him, like this whole situation is his fault. “So what are we going to do? Pierce is out of control. This is our livelihood at stake, Steve.”

Bucky meets Angie’s eyes across the table with a _what-is-even-happening?_ look. She gives him a helpless shrug and continues eating her salad. Steve sets his sandwich down and leans back in his chair. “You’re just going to have to trust me on this.”

Peggy scoffs. “I don’t see how when you haven’t lifted a finger to stop it from happening.” She gestures around at the piles of paper. “I’ve spent countless hours working with accounting to find financial supplementation. I’ve had phone conversations with the President of the United States to discuss additional funding. With Tony Stark under Alexander Pierce’s thumb, we will become the largest power in the world.”

“I know that,” Steve replies, quiet and dejected.

Peggy stands and slams her fist on the table. Bucky and Angie jump. “Then why aren’t you fighting?”

Steve pushes his plate forward and stands also. He looks Peggy in the eye and says, “I am.” As he heads toward the door, he adds, “C’mon, Buck. We have a meeting with Coulson’s team on twenty-seven.”

Bucky shoots an apologetic glance toward Angie, confused, and Peggy, furious, before grabbing the rest of his sandwich and following Steve out of the office.

***

Bucky is exhausted by the time they make it back to the apartment after nightfall. He orders them delivery instead of cooking, and the second he makes it up from the lobby and sets the food on the counter, Steve presses him against it from behind.

Bucky immediately tenses up. He knows Steve has had a rough day, and he kind of wants Steve to take it out on him, to punish him for being so insolent earlier.

“Is this the game we’re playing now, Buck?” Steve asks in his ear, reaching up and tugging Bucky’s hair.

Bucky can feel the long line of his body against his back, and he can’t stifle a smile as he says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.” He’s been on edge all day thinking about what Steve’s move would be once they got home. Surely he wouldn’t be able to sext Steve during an important meeting without consequence.

“If you wanted my attention, all you had to do was ask.” There’s a roughness in Steve’s voice, a low kind of growl that Bucky can feel in his chest. It’s demanding but playful and driving Bucky to stupidity again.

“Where’s the fun in that, sir?”

Steve swats at his ass, and Bucky hisses through his teeth. It stings the existing welts on his skin.

“If you’re gonna be bad, we’re changing up the rules,” Steve says. His lips graze the shell of Bucky’s ear.

“Do I have to sign new documentation for that, or—”

Steve spanks him again in the same spot. It’s dulled under the fabric of Bucky’s dress pants, and he wants to drop them so that he can feel the full effect. “First new rule: no talking back.”

Bucky opens his mouth to speak, and gets out a meager, “But—” before Steve smacks him again.

It shuts him up.

“Second new rule: starting now, your uniform after eight p.m. will consist of nothing. I don’t want to see a scrap of clothing on your body from after dinner to bedtime. Nod if you’re okay with that.”

Like that’s even a fucking _question_. Steve’s grip on Bucky’s hair loosens, and Bucky tries not to be too eager when he nods.

This time, instead of spanking him, Steve combs a hand through his hair.

“Third new rule,” Steve says, softer now, “you ask for permission before every single orgasm. No jerking off in the shower or before bed unless I pre-approve it. If I’m busy or asleep, you’re out of luck. If you fool around with Natasha, you ask for her permission instead of mine. Nod again if you’re okay with that.”

Bucky didn’t know Steve was aware of his relationship with Natasha, but it’s a surprising relief that he not only knows but is totally okay with it. With Natasha it’s different anyway. Their relationship is fun and easy and simple. With Steve, though…

Bucky nods, and Steve runs his hand through his hair again. For the first time, he whispers, “Good boy.” He grabs the food from the counter and walks away, and Bucky has to grip the marble to regain his composure.

***

After dinner, Bucky excuses himself to his bedroom and undresses, per the new rule. He has to calm himself down before he goes back into the living room, because he’s half hard at just the thought of Steve wanting to see him naked, of being around Steve naked. It’s kind of shocking to him how comfortable he’s gotten around Agent Rogers; how, despite the rigid structure of their relationship, there’s a kind of freedom in it. Bucky always knows exactly who he is around Steve, trusts Steve to be honest with him, to tell him when he’s gone too far.

He takes a few deep breaths and joins Steve in the living room. The television is turned on to the news, and Steve has a sketchpad in his lap. From what Bucky can see, it’s abstract, mostly lines and shapes, like Steve is drawing out his day. His shirt sleeves are rolled up and his tie is loose around his neck.

He looks up when Bucky approaches and appraises him like he did on that first day, but now there’s a small smile on his face as he takes in Bucky’s body for his own pleasure. Bucky gets a little thrill out of putting that look on Steve’s face.

As much as he loves finally having Steve’s attention, he still wants to push the envelope. It’s just no fun taking direct orders without spinning them a little bit to his benefit. So instead of sitting on the couch like he normally does after dinner, he takes a throw pillow and tosses it on the ground by Steve’s feet. Then he sinks to his knees and settles back on his haunches toward the TV. His shoulder brushes against Steve’s leg, and he listens as the pencil stops scratching against paper. The playful scoff Steve makes is barely audible, but it makes Bucky feel victorious nonetheless.

Steve sets his sketchpad on the coffee table and runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair, then guides Bucky’s head to rest against his thigh.

“So good,” Steve murmurs, and continues playing with Bucky’s hair while they watch the news together. Bucky’s mind goes to its place of stillness quickly, all the tension from the day unwinding with each gentle stroke of Steve’s hand in his hair. He’s too tired to see if he can goad Steve into touching him, so it doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep against Steve’s leg.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot? I don't know what you're talking about.

Bucky is going _absolutely nuts._ Steve will tease him mercilessly, talk filthy to him, ogle him like an object, but he _won’t touch Bucky at all_. No kissing, no holding hands, and definitely no ass-pounding. Bucky is fucking _distraught._

All Bucky has managed to accomplish is figuring out how to annoy Steve enough to get a _look,_ or be affectionate enough to get one of those shy smiles that make Bucky’s stomach flip. Steve has him on a short leash, but to Bucky’s utter fucking dismay, it’s only a metaphorical one. Bucky has had to adjust his mental list of Captain America Character Traits so that “motherfucking cocktease” is at the very top.

Bucky hasn’t gotten off since Steve made the new rules, mostly out of obstinance. Now he’s regretting it, feels all pent-up, and the tiniest brush of Steve’s hand or shoulder or any touch at all is making him immediately hard. He feels like he’s ready to explode.

It’s after dinner on a random Tuesday, and Bucky is doing the dishes. Normally Steve turns on the news and starts sketching, but tonight, he hangs out in the kitchen with Bucky, suspiciously quiet.

Bucky glances behind him while he rinses off a plate. “Is there a problem, sir?”

Steve tilts his head and trails his eyes down Bucky’s backside. Bucky can’t read his expression. “No, just...curious.”

“About?”

“It’s been a long time since you got off is all. Wondering how that’s going for you.”

Bucky tries not to break the plate in his metal hand. “Good. Perfect. Great.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks, stepping closer to him. Bucky can feel him at his back, feel his body heat hovering but not touching.

“Definitely. Never better.”

“Hmm.” Steve runs a hand through Bucky’s hair, and it sends a shiver over his whole body while his dick twitches in his pants.

“Ohh _God,_ ” he accidentally says, and Steve laughs a dirty little chuckle in his ear.

“You’re stubborn, you know that, Sergeant?” Steve asks, barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s voice wavers more than he intends when he replies, “So I’ve been told.”

“That means you wouldn’t be bothered if I…” Steve trails his fingers down Bucky’s hip, right where it’s just a little bit ticklish and makes the bottom drop out of Bucky’s stomach, then he leans forward and licks the shell of his ear.

And goddamn if Bucky doesn’t nearly come right then. He lets out a whimper that he tries vainly to stifle.

“No, no, that’s…” Bucky begins as he refrains from grinding his pelvis into the counter for friction. “Doesn’t bother me.”

Steve grips Bucky’s hair in his hand and pulls back hard enough that Bucky grunts and his knees feel weak. He whispers in Bucky’s ear, “Finish the dishes and meet me in your bedroom, Sergeant. Understood?”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and his voice cracks when he replies, “Yes, sir.”

Steve slaps his ass and Bucky accidentally bends the spoon in his metal hand to a ninety-degree angle. “Good boy.”

Bucky is going to _die._

***

Bucky manages to finish the dishes and heads immediately to his bedroom. Steve is propped up against Bucky’s headboard, fully dressed sans shoes and looking unfairly sexy. He smiles when Bucky enters.

“Undress and have a seat,” Steve says, with a devious, crooked smile on his face, and pats the mattress between his legs.

Bucky tries to think of a way to subvert the order somehow, but his mind is too fucked-out to do much. He goes as slow as he possibly can, and even then, he’s so eager that he pretty much fails, because getting in Steve’s lap takes a kind of unconscious priority he can’t manage to work around. He loosens his tie and slides it out of his collar. Biting his lip, he watches Steve and lets himself revel a bit in the way Steve’s face tinges pink when Bucky unbuttons and takes off his shirt. He pulls his belt out with a snap, and swears he sees a bulge in Steve’s pants. _Jesus_ , he wants more than anything to crawl between his legs and help him with it.

He hooks his thumbs in his pants and slides them off along with his boxers, already hard just from Steve watching him undress. He kicks them to the side and crawls onto the mattress as slowly as he can manage, and God, he can’t help it: when he gets between Steve’s legs, he mouths at his cock and reaches up to undo his pants.

It turns out to be wishful thinking, because Steve hisses through his teeth, grabs Bucky by the hair, and yanks upward so that their eyes meet. Bucky gasps, and Steve says, “You don’t want to be a bad boy right now, Sergeant. Trust me.”

It takes every ounce of Bucky’s willpower not to surge forward and kiss Steve senseless, but he manages. He turns around and settles himself into the V of Steve’s legs.

“Now what?” Bucky asks.

Steve pulls him back by the shoulders so that Bucky is leaning against his chest. Bucky has exactly no idea what to expect, but at least he can feel the rise and fall of Steve’s breath, can feel the warmth radiating from his body. At least they're  _touching._

“If you’re not going to take care of yourself,” Steve begins, running the tips of his fingers up and down Bucky’s bare thighs, “then it looks like I’ll have to make you.”

Bucky snorts indignantly but he’s already unraveling at Steve’s barest touch, breath hitching. Steve noses at the sensitive spot behind Bucky’s ear and settles his hands on Bucky’s hips.

“Touch yourself,” Steve whispers, and Bucky bites back a groan.

But at least Bucky can think of a little defiance this time. With his metal hand twisted in the sheets, he lifts his flesh arm and pinches at one of his nipples, gives Steve a little show. He pulls his lip between his teeth to hide his smile.

He expects Steve to get stern with him for taking the command too literally, tell him that’s not what he meant, but instead, Steve bites down a little on Bucky’s neck, just enough to make it unbearable not to immediately shift his hand to his cock.

Which is exactly what he does, pressing his palm against where it’s resting on his stomach. At the feel of Steve’s teeth against his skin, a pulse of precome trails out of him, and he catches it with his thumb, lets it slick up the feel of his rough palm on soft skin. He’s done this a million times, thinking about getting fucked by Steve Rogers before he even met the guy, so in a way, this is as easy as breathing.

“So beautiful,” Steve murmurs against his neck, gripping his hips a little tighter.

Bucky speeds his pace, leans back on Steve completely. He tips his head back to bare his throat, and widens his legs.

“Need you to ask me before you’re about to come, okay?” Steve asks.

Bucky’s breathing is going heavy, his mind starting to blank out a bit, and he nods.

“Good boy,” Steve coos, and presses a tiny kiss to Bucky’s throat.

And that’s all it takes. Bucky gasps and says, “Fuck, ‘m gonna—”

But before he can come, Steve grips Bucky’s wrist and pulls his hand away.

Bucky lets out a pained sound, and Steve hisses, “What’d I tell you?”

Instead of replying, Bucky tries to touch himself with his metal hand, but Steve grabs that too, and pulls Bucky’s arms behind his head.

There’s no more friction, so Bucky struggles in Steve’s grip, but Steve holds him tight.

“What’d I tell you?” Steve asks again.

Bucky bites out, “Ask you before I come, sir.”

“And did you?”

Bucky struggles a little more, writhes in Steve's lap, and Steve shifts his grip so that he’s holding both of Bucky’s wrists in one hand. He reaches down to slap the side of Bucky’s thigh.

The sting of it just makes everything worse, and Bucky can feel his cock pulsing with the need to be touched.

“No,” Bucky replies honestly. “I was just gonna do it.”

“And what did I tell you about being a bad boy, Sergeant?”

“That I don’t want to be one right now, _sir.”_

“That’s right. Now start again.” Steve lets go of Bucky’s wrists and reaches over to Bucky’s bedside table to procure a bottle of lube. “And use this.”

Steve probably means just on his dick, but Bucky is all cranky and pent up, so he shifts down on the bed and brings his knees up. He squeezes some lube out onto his fingers and slicks both of his hands.

He uses his metal arm to reach between his legs and circle two fingers against his hole, and starts slowly stroking his cock with his other hand.

Steve remains silent, but hooks his chin over Bucky’s shoulder to get a better view.

So Bucky gives him a show.

He presses a finger into himself, works himself open a little and then adds a second. It burns a bit, and he has to force himself to slow down. He scissors himself open enough to add a third, and then he fucks himself on three fingers in earnest, filthy wet sounds drowning out his harsh breaths.

Bucky is already getting close again, his fist on his cock speeding up, and he says, “Please, sir, may I—”

“Stop,” Steve replies. His voice is stern, authoritative.

Bucky immediately squeezes the base of his cock and stills his fingers within himself. He closes his eyes and strains to catch his breath.

“Why are we doing this?” Bucky asks, trying not to whine.

“Call it a trust exercise.” Steve presses another kiss to Bucky’s neck, rubs up and down his thighs again, and Bucky thinks it might be worth it to stave off coming if Steve is going to be sweet to him after. “That was good, Buck. So good. You can start again when ready.”

Bucky immediately takes the opportunity to begin fucking himself again, crooking his fingers up to find his own prostate before he bothers touching himself. When he hits it, he arches his back and cries out and wishes more than anything it could be Steve three-fingers deep inside him instead of himself.

With that thought in his head, Bucky takes his cock in his hand again and picks up the pace he’d set before Steve made him stop.

It’s less than a minute before he’s groaning, “May I please—”

“Stop,” Steve says, and Bucky almost screams in frustration.

But he stops, and now Steve rubs him all over, up and down his sides, his chest, trailing his hands over and thumbing at Bucky’s nipples. He presses kisses down Bucky’s neck to his shoulder, and it takes Bucky a solid minute to come back down.

“Ready to go again?” Steve asks.

Bucky lets out a ragged, “Uh huh,” and begins once more. His brain feels like melted butter, and he’s so sensitive that he forces himself to think about anything other than the fact that he’s jerking himself off and fucking himself in Captain America’s goddamn lap. His entire body is trembling, and it feels like it takes no time at all before he begs, “Please, sir, please may I c—”

“Stop,” Steve says.

Bucky lets out an involuntary broken sob. This time, when Steve soothes him, he runs his hand through Bucky’s sweat-damp hair and starts murmuring quiet praises that fall into the white noise occupying Bucky’s brain.

He doesn’t know how long it takes before Steve asks, “Ready?”

Words can no longer form in Bucky’s mouth, so he nods and takes hold of himself again. This time, Steve covers Bucky’s fist with his own and sets the pace.

Oh _God_ , Bucky’s not going to be able to make it this time. He’s not going to be able to stop if Steve is so close to touching his cock, basically jacking Bucky off on his behalf. His whole body is trembling and he feels like he’s on the verge of hyperventilating. His back is covered in sweat, sticking to Steve’s shirt, and he presses back as much as he can, needs Steve as close as he can get.

“I want you to come for me this time, okay?” Steve asks in Bucky’s ear, and Bucky could cry with relief. “Whenever you’re ready.”

So with his last ounce of self-control, Bucky pulls out all the stops. He hits his prostate again, lets his grip go a bit slack so Steve can take over, lets himself drift into thoughts about Steve pushing Bucky’s face into the mattress and fucking him until he can’t see straight. He feels Steve’s big sturdy body behind him, the hard line of his cock pressed at the small of Bucky’s back. It’d be so damn easy for Steve to just pull out his cock so Bucky could shift up a bit and sit on it, fuck himself senseless until Steve fills him up—

“Wanna see you come for me, baby,” Steve murmurs in Bucky’s ear, low and filthy and _fuck_ , Bucky climaxes so hard he nearly screams. Come coats their fists and flies up onto his chest and chin. It feels like it lasts an eternity, and when he finally starts to climb down from it, Steve increases the pace and Bucky comes again, so hard and fast that it feels like he got hit by a bus. His vision goes blurry at the edges and he thinks there might have even been a third or tenth orgasm somewhere in there too. It’s insane, it shouldn’t be possible; he’s never felt anything like it.

Steve lets go of him and Bucky slides his fingers out of his ass. His body is jelly and he lets himself sink into Steve’s embrace. Steve pets his hair and says, “Good boy,” over and over while kissing Bucky’s temple. “So good for me.”

After Bucky catches his breath, Steve crawls out from under him and climbs out of bed. He returns a moment later with a warm cloth to clean Bucky up. Bucky blearily opens his eyes when Steve steps away again and finds him undressing. If Bucky had an ounce of energy left in his entire body, he would probably be willing to go for round two, because this is kind of a momentous occasion—Bucky has never seen Steve in anything less than sweatpants and a t-shirt.

When Steve pulls his undershirt over his head and drops it to the floor, Bucky lets out a low groan. Steve’s pants follow, but he keeps his boxers on, and then he climbs over Bucky to settle behind his back.

As God as Bucky’s witness, he’d never admit that he enjoys being the little spoon, but curled into the embrace of Steve Rogers, he thinks he can make an exception.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't really in the outline so my sincerest apologies for the heteroplatonic interruption.

Bucky loves Sundays. Not only does he not have to wake up at the crack of dawn, he doesn’t have to cook, clean, or wear a tie. The best part is that Steve is the chillest he can possibly get. They usually hang out in pajamas and watch movies all day, and even though he’s a lousy cook, Steve sometimes makes brunch. They order pizza later on and Steve sketches Bucky for hours on end.

They talk, too, about more than the Stark merger and SHIELD. Steve gets curious about Bucky’s life and shyly asks about it while drawing. Bucky’s always been reserved doling out his past, but Sunday-Steve breaks down his walls like no one else.

Bucky has told Steve about growing up a poor kid in Brooklyn as the oldest of four siblings; how his ma died when he was eighteen; that he hated the person he became while he was overseas. He’d always felt so damn useless his whole life, never good at anything, but the military gave him focus, drive, passion. It was only too late that Bucky realized the cost was far too high. It wasn't worth the blood he spilled and it wasn't worth his arm; he'd take feeling useless any day of the week. He'd never told that to anyone before.

And whenever Bucky divulges this kind of information, Steve just nods down at his sketchpad in understanding—because, as Bucky has finally put together, he _does_ understand. Maybe that’s why Bucky has been so obsessed with Captain America his whole life: they’re pretty much the same person born in different eras. Steve is more defensive and Bucky is a little rough around the edges, but inside, they share the same core.

At least, Bucky hopes. For all he knows, he’s just imagining it.

Each day, each week that passes, it becomes more evident to Bucky that whatever their relationship has become has seemingly breached the boundaries of contractual obligation, and it finally dawns on him that, once his year is up, he’d be willing to sign up for another. And another. However many it takes so long as he gets to stay with Steve. Even if he only ever gets brief glimpses underneath the cold exterior of Agent Rogers, they’re worth all the silences and thousand-yard stares and occasionally ignoring Bucky’s existence.

Bucky lies in bed early on a Sunday morning, staring up at the ceiling and appreciating not having anywhere to be. He doesn’t hear the coffee pot or the padding of bare feet around the apartment, so it’s possible that Steve is either still asleep (unlikely) or went for a run (slightly more likely).

The only problem that taints this particular Sunday morning is that Steve isn’t in bed with him. He’s only slept in Bucky’s bed a handful of times, but Bucky is afraid to ask for it more often. Occasionally Bucky will have a nightmares, but none of them have been as bad as the first one. When he wakes up shouting, Steve is immediately up and knocking on his door. Bucky has gotten into the habit of letting him in, and Steve wordlessly takes him back to bed, holds him while they fall asleep together.

Each time, Bucky wants to turn around in his grasp and kiss Steve senseless, touch him and worship him and thank him for everything, but he never does, and he’s beginning to worry that his relationship with Steve is more like his relationship with Peggy, or both of their relationships with Natasha, and not like Peggy’s relationship with Angie.

Though, Bucky supposes as he runs a hand down his face, he’ll take what he can get.

Even if he happens to want a hell of a lot more.

He stands from the bed and throws on a pair of sweatpants, then makes his way out to the front room which is predictably empty.

What is not predictably empty is the coffee pot, nor the bag of doughnuts next to it, and the neatly wrapped gift beside that. It’s a small box in black wrapping paper with a silver ribbon around it and a small card jutting out.

Bucky plucks out the card and opens it. Steve’s neat script reads:

_Happy 6 month anniversary! Thanks for being the greatest Support a guy like me could ever ask for. Not sure if you’ve looked at the calendar, but press season is coming up and I thought I’d make a small addition to the dress code. I expect you to be wearing this for every event on the calendar I’ve marked with an asterisk._

_Sorry I can’t be here to celebrate with you. I’ll be out all day. Please spend the day getting acquainted with it, by yourself or with Natasha (she’s been dying to play with it since she helped me pick it out)._

_—SGR_

_PS There are two remotes. I’m keeping one on me._

Bucky has no idea what to expect, and his chest feels tight. Steve _thanked_ him, wished him a happy anniversary, and bought him a gift. Bucky can’t get his head around that. Hand trembling with excitement, Bucky sets the note down and tears open the wrapping paper.

Inside is a sturdy black box. He flips the little golden clasp and opens the lid to find a pretty black toy nestled among shiny gold silk. It’s narrow at the top and flares out at the bottom like a spade. The base has a little gem on it. Beside it is a small remote with eight settings, and the slot beside that is empty.

Steven Grant Rogers—one of the greatest heroes in the entire world, stodgy and overbearing as fuck, takes everything too seriously, and is actually adorably shy once you get to know him—purchased Bucky a remote-control vibrating butt plug as an anniversary gift.

_Holy fucking shit._

Not knowing what the hell else to do, Bucky sets it down, pulls his phone out, and takes a picture of it. Then he texts it to Natasha with the comment, _WHAT THE SHIT IS THIS NATASHA?_

Natasha replies with a string of heart-eyes emojis and, _FINALLY. Can I come play?_

_B: FUCK YES YOU CAN._

Bucky just really loves Sundays.

***

“Okay,” Natasha says, sitting cross-legged on Bucky’s bed, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and a tank top without a bra underneath. The instructions are open on her lap, and she reads them with the same focus and fervor with which she pursues everything. “It looks pretty simple.”

“It’s a butt plug. How complicated can it be?” Bucky asks, lying on his side. The plug rests on the bed between them.

She glares at him. “Agent Rogers gave us a mission. He’s going to parade you around in public with a vibrating plug in your ass. We need to be sure you’ll be able to handle it.”

Bucky sits up a little. “Wait, he’s really going to do that?”

“What, do you think he’s kidding?”

“Well, no, I just…”

 _Fuck._ Bucky changes Steve’s title in his head from “motherfucking cocktease” to “ULTIMATE motherfucking cocktease”.

“At least it’ll make press junkets more fun,” Natasha offers.

Bucky bites at his bottom lip and ventures, “Did Agent Rogers keep you, uhh...entertained during press stuff?”

Natasha looks up from the little booklet and smirks at him. “He used to finger me under the table when no one was looking.”

“Oh my _god,”_ Bucky replies. His dick twitches just thinking about it. “So how long did it take before you two started...you know…”

“Fucking?” Natasha offers.

“Yeah.”

She shrugs. “A year. Year and a half maybe. The guy moves as fast as a glacier. Pun intended.”

Bucky snorts a laugh. After a pause, he asks as casually as he can muster, “So when it finally happened, was it like...heart soaring? Sparks flying? ‘I Will Always Love You’ blasting through the surround sound?”

Natasha stares at him with barely-held amusement. “I can’t tell if you’re kidding.”

Bucky thumbs at the base of the plug. “What if I’m not?”

“Look,” she replies, setting down the booklet. “I don’t feel that way about people, ever. The only thing Steve and I have between us is mutual respect and sexual tension in spades.”

“Oh,” Bucky replies, trying to hide his relief.

Natasha leans forward, elbows on her knees. “But now that begs the question, do you think Whitney Houston is waiting backstage for Rogers to fuck you stupid?”

Bucky scoffs, “No,” then amends, “I mean, I dunno.”

Natasha’s jaw drops. “Oh my god, you _like_ him.”

“Oh come on. You can’t spend every waking moment with a guy and not like him.”

She shifts onto her knees. “No, I mean, you _like-him_ like him.”

“What are you, fourteen?”

“Excuse me for having a vested interest in your love life.”

“It’s not my love life. It’s my _job_.”

Natasha grins. “James and Steve, sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N—”

Bucky does the only thing that can ever shut Natasha up: he surges forward and kisses her.

It’s the weird, platonic-sexual equivalent of tackling her. And there’s a bit of that too, because Natasha tosses the booklet off the bed and pushes Bucky down onto the mattress. She climbs on top of him, but Bucky won’t let her win that easy. He flips them around so that his thigh is pressed into her crotch and he grinds against her, filthy in a way that makes her smile against his lips.

She pulls at his hair and maneuvers herself to flip him over again, only this time they roll off the bed completely and land with a heavy thud, laughing and breaking apart.

Breathless and laughing, Bucky says, “I swear, it’s not like that."

Natasha props herself up on her elbow. “Whatever, James. Keep telling yourself that.”

There’s no arguing with Natasha when she sets her mind to something, so Bucky kisses her again, easy as breathing, lets his hand trail down and fit between her legs over her shorts. He rubs his fingers against her slit until she writhes against him.

When she pulls away, her cheeks are flushed, lips swollen and red. Her voice is a thick rasp as she says, “We should probably get started on the mission.”

***

Bucky is spread out and naked on the bed while Natasha fucks three lubed fingers into him, scissoring him as wide as she can get. To Bucky’s dismay, she’s taking her dear sweet time with him. Her fingers are thinner than guys’ fingers are, and Bucky’s never been specifically fucked by a woman before, especially not one who seems to be taking such visible delight in torturing him.

She hasn’t touched his dick at all. It rests heavy and hard on his stomach, leaking out a steady stream. His only solace is that Steve told him he could get Natasha’s permission to come, but it’s been almost a week since he last came and there’s no way he’s going to last like this.

“I don’t know why we don’t do this more often,” Natasha says with a devious smile.

“Because I’d probably die,” Bucky manages, voice strained and eyes squeezed shut.

Natasha makes a _mmm_ noise and fucks him a little faster. When she crooks her fingers up, Bucky cries out and immediately reaches for his dick.

She swats his hand away. “Nope, not yet. Hand on the headboard.”

With a frustrated grunt, Bucky grips the headboard. He might be able to get away with pushing Steve’s rules sometimes just for kicks, but not Natasha’s. He doesn't want to see what her idea of punishment is.

After another solid minute of grazing his prostate, Bucky begs, “Please. ‘M ready.”

“Are you sure? You still feel pretty tight to me.” Natasha fits in her pinky finger and Bucky groans. Her hands are too fucking small and the plug is bigger and he needs it _now_.

“God, yes, _please._ ” Bucky shifts his hips a little, fucks into the air for friction he knows he’s not going to get.

“Well since you asked so nicely,” Natasha replies, and pulls her fingers out carefully. Bucky feels empty and strung-out while she slicks up the plug with lube and presses it at his entrance. “Relax,” she says in a soothing tone. She fucks him slowly with it, stretching him open by getting a little deeper with each push.

Bucky feels when it slips all the way inside, like he's completely filled up, but it doesn’t provide an ounce of relief.

Natasha leaves him there, panting, while she goes to the bathroom to rinse the lube off her hands. She lies back down next to him, propped up on her elbow, watching him with interest.

He tries his damnedest not to break the headboard, but he can feel the existing notches start to give way in his metal hand.

She pulls him toward her, slots their lips together, but maintains careful distance so Bucky can’t rut against her.

“Permission to touch you?” Bucky asks, trying to keep the plea out of his voice.

“Granted,” she replies, and Bucky shifts to his side, feeling the plug move in him and lighting him up from the inside. He trails his hand down her side and fits it into the front of her shorts. She spreads her legs and lets him graze her slit, already wet, and it’d be a goddamn miracle if she’d let him fuck her. It’s a rare occasion that happens, but when Bucky is _really_ good, she allows it. 

(Weird bonus of being SHIELD Support staff: monthly testing. Everyone in the facility is clean, and Natasha had told him—brusque and matter-of-fact—that she couldn’t have kids and would thus prefer they have sex without a condom.)

It takes time to learn a person’s body, and Bucky hasn’t had much opportunity to do that in his life, but he’s glad he’s learned Natasha. She’s too beautiful for words and Bucky kind of loves her in a weird way he can’t describe. He loves how bossy she is. He loves her honesty, like she’s spent a lifetime learning what it really means to be true. He loves the way she lets him take care of her a little, like she is now, just a fun and frivolous afternoon delight.

Bucky circles her clit with two fingers in a slow, steady rhythm. He kisses her while he does it, until she’s panting against him, shifting her hips so that he’ll fuck her with his fingers. He inserts his middle one into her and she lets out a soft moan, then he adds a second. Her eyes flutter shut, plush red lips parted, and for a brief moment, she's so goddamn intoxicating that Bucky forgets his own needs.

Her breath speeds up, body tensing, hand threaded in his hair. He keeps a steady pressure on her clit, and her hips start to shift against his hand in her own rhythm. She’s close, so close that Bucky has the perfect opportunity to bend the rules a little. He trails kisses down her throat, moves onto his knees and slips out of her. She whines, but when she sees what Bucky’s doing, stays silent. He kisses down her neck and chest while slipping the straps of her tank top off her shoulders. He pulls it under her breasts and sucks a hardened nipple into his mouth, watches her as he works. He takes his cold metal hand and plays with the other nipple, and she hisses through her teeth.

He’s too eager, never did have good self-control, so he tugs at her shorts and she lifts her hips. He slides them off of her and settles between her legs.

And _God_ , there it is: friction, his dick pressed against the mattress. It feels so good he could come right there. Bucky kisses his way up Natasha’s thigh until he’s mouthing the soft hair around her lips and pressing the tip of his tongue against her clit. He rolls it around, and Natasha immediately threads her fingers in his hair again, pulling so he’ll go harder and faster, just as impatient as he is. He enters her with two fingers and relishes the sweet, familiar taste of her, the feel of fucking himself into the mattress. He works Natasha with his fingers and tongue in earnest, hand soaked. Natasha makes broken, high-pitched sounds, and when he looks up at her, her breasts are pressed together between her arms as she grips his hair.

“Fuck,” she grits out, “harder.”

So he fucks into her more fervently, lets her guide his face against her while she rocks all over his mouth. They find a rhythm until Natasha’s moans go silent but for heavy panting. Her whole body is tensed, and she starts whispering, “James, oh James, oh oh—”

She comes with a cry, head back and hips grinding against his face, clenching around his fingers over and over. Bucky licks her softly downward until her body twitches into stillness.

She goes slack and Bucky slides out of her again, kisses up her thighs, bites a little at the soft pale skin. He looks at her with a plea in his eyes, and when she finally meets his gaze, she says, “Alright, you earned it.”

Bucky grins and sidles up the bed, between her legs until his cock is pressed against her wetness. He slides himself against it, lets the tip of his cock bump against her entrance and roll over her clit, over and over until Natasha gets worked up all over again. He leans down to kiss her, and she licks the taste of herself off of his lips. Bucky barely notices when she reaches under her pillow and pulls out a small black cylinder.

He registers the sound of a soft click, and the vibration within him shocks him so much that he shoves his cock into her in one fast movement, pushing her several inches up the bed. She shouts in surprise, then lets out a little laugh and, in retaliation, turns the remote to the next setting.

The vibration doubles in intensity, and Bucky fucks into her again.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasps, hips working of their own volition, thrusting into Natasha with quick, shallow movements.

“This was a great idea,” she replies, a little breathless. “Ready for the third setting?”

 _“Fuck,”_ Bucky says. “No.”

It feels like fireworks are going off inside his body, like he can’t get enough air in his lungs. Natasha’s tight heat pulses around his cock, slick and wet, and he has to pull out to grasp the base of his dick while he rests his head on Natasha’s chest and catches his breath.

She scratches playfully behind his ears. “C’mon, Barnes. You can do this.”

He glares up at her from between her breasts. “Okay, we’ll put a vibrating plug in _your_ ass and see how long _you_ last.”

“Agent Rogers wouldn’t have bought it for you if he didn’t think you could handle it.” She grins in that way she has, like she just double-dared him into doing something stupid. Bucky is glad he didn’t know her when he was a kid—she would have gotten him into so much trouble. Well, more trouble.

Before he can retaliate, Natasha does one of her ridiculous ninja moves and maneuvers him onto his back. She sinks down onto his cock and he cries out, nearly comes right then, but as she starts a steady grind against him, she leans down and whispers, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

Somehow, that relaxes him, and he grips her thighs, willing his body to come down from the edge. When it does, she asks, “Ready for three now?”

Reluctant, he nods. She clicks the remote, and now Bucky can feel the vibration all the way in his teeth. His cock throbs inside of Natasha, and he gasps out, “Not gonna last like this.”

She fucks onto him with slow, shallow movements, and reaches between her legs to touch herself. She tosses the remote onto the bed and then grips his throat in her hand, not squeezing, but threatening. “Agent Rogers gave you rules. I think you could phrase that better.”

Bucky growls in frustration, eyes squeezing shut and gripping Natasha’s thighs so hard he’s sure his fingerprints will leave bruises. “Please, Mistress…” He trails off, mind starting to unravel at the edges, only capable of heavy, soundless breaths and waves of near-torturous pleasure washing over him.

“Mmm?” Natasha asks.

“May I come? Please?” His voice cracks. If she says no, he’s going to break into a million pieces.

Her grip tightens a little on his throat, just enough to make all of the sensation in his body escalate tenfold. He can feel her tensing again as she works herself, and finally she says, “You may.”

Bucky holds her still by the hips and fucks her as hard and as fast as he can, pounding into her until she has to brace herself on the headboard for purchase. The position he’s in makes the plug continually vibrate against his prostate.

Bucky’s whole body becomes a livewire, and he comes so hard that he can’t hear the sounds escaping his lips, more intense than it's ever been in his life. Natasha follows right behind, and feeling her walls clench against him pulls wave upon wave of pleasure out of him.  

When he finally climbs back down, Natasha leans leans over him, slowing her pace, and kisses the sweat from the juncture of his shoulder and neck. His vision blurs at the edges and he feels like he's been coming for a whole week. He's never had an orgasm that lasted longer than a woman's before. He didn't think it was possible.

“Holy fuck,” Bucky says, still shuddering and grinding inside of her because of the now-torturous vibration inside of him. His body grows quickly over-sensitized and he slams his palm on the mattress to find the remote. His hand shakes as he switches it off. The damn thing has eight settings; he didn't even make it half-way. 

Natasha rolls off of him, spent, and says, breathless, “Well, good news…” She holds up her hand between them. Bucky looks at it and manages to swing his around to meet hers in a victorious-albeit-exhausted high-five. “Mission accomplished.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe you an apology for the accidental hiatus I took on this fic. I let the negativity I'd been receiving on it and the confusing stats (a lot of traffic, only a handful of comments?) get to me and I set it down for longer than I intended. Many of you have sent me nice messages letting me know how much you like the story and encouraged me to continue, so for that I thank you. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope this chapter makes up for the radio silence. And yes, I will be finishing this fic. I estimate 6-ish more chapters.

For weeks, Bucky _absolutely dreads_ this whole press thing because Steve is moping around the apartment about it all grumpy and cold like he gets sometimes. Bucky tries to cheer him up by making apple pie, and all he gets is a, _Thanks, Buck._ He kneels naked at his feet after dinner, and Steve pets his hair and watches TV until it’s time for bed. He looks up at Steve with hopeful doe eyes, offering him everything he has to give, and Steve pretends not to notice. He fights the urge to push Steve’s buttons, because it doesn’t seem like now is a good time for that and it would just end disastrously. So Bucky is good, as much as he hates it.

And then the season starts and Bucky comes to find that a press event is basically just non-stop partying with a lot of free food and booze.

Hot people. Dancing. _Booze._ Gourmet buffets. Expensive suits. _Booze._ It’s probably the most fun Bucky has ever had in his life, including the time he got thrown off of a roller coaster and was given free season passes to Coney Island.

He doesn’t have to cook. There’s barely any cleaning to do because they’re never home. He gets a handful of new, designer-label suits. He earns overtime on Sundays. There are valets and news people involved and he gets to see Steve behind the scenes as his public persona and it’s everything Bucky has ever wanted in life. And the best part is that Steve is so busy that he doesn’t have time to rant about the godforsaken Stark merger anymore. He just up and stopped talking about it completely.

Everything’s coming up Bucky.

The first couple events are short dinner affairs that mostly involve Steve shaking everybody’s hand in a five-mile radius. The third event is a big one, and it’s marked with an asterisk on the calendar. Bucky put in a great many hours of practice with the plug, both alone and with Natasha, and also wore it around the apartment in hopes Steve might randomly switch it on. No luck, since Steve’s done nothing but brood for two solid weeks. Bucky hopes that he’ll cheer up once they make it to the first big event and Steve will get the opportunity to be otherwise occupied in the pursuit of occupying Bucky.

Outside the big event—where there is a _literal red carpet_ —Bucky stays within the hordes of people like he’d been instructed by Natasha. He keeps his metal hand in his pocket and the rest is covered by his sleeve, so he’s pretty much invisible, which is great, because that means he can people-watch. Namely, he enjoys watching people lose their shit over meeting Captain America. Steve plasters on his million-dollar smile and signs photographs of himself, leans in for selfies, kisses babies, the whole nine yards. Bucky gets a little thrill while he watches Steve pose to get his picture taken in front of logo-covered vinyl walls.

Steve’s job title might be _Senior Agent_ , and he might be Bucky’s Lead, but—among the many hours kneeling at Steve’s feet, the furtive touches and sly glances—Bucky has managed to forget that first and foremost, Steve is a literal goddamn superhero.

In the fray, Steve interrupts an impromptu interview he’s having with six microphones around his face to check his watch and scan the crowd. He spots Bucky and grins—a real one, not the kind for the pictures—then disengages from the interviewers to make his way over. When Bucky navigates through the throngs of people to meet Steve in the middle, Steve puts a hand at the small of his back and leans in. “I told you these were awful,” he says, his lips grazing Bucky’s ear. It sends a shiver down his spine, makes him lean in even closer; any excuse to touch Steve, especially in front of all these people who can see them.

Bucky can barely hear him over the commotion, but he manages to reply, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You get to see how much everyone adores you.”

“They don’t adore me. They adore Captain America.”

“What’s the difference?”

Steve huffs a remorseful laugh and ushers Bucky into the banquet hall where there are fewer voices, louder music, and no flashing cameras. A hostess leads them away and seats them at a large round table. They finally have a private moment, so Steve rests his hand on Bucky’s knee and asks, “Doing okay?” His eyes are warm and innocent but there’s a playful, knowing glint behind them that makes Bucky’s dick twitch in his pants.

He fidgets in his seat and feels the plug shift inside him. He stifled all his little gasps and how often he wants to worry his lip between his teeth, but now he pulls out all the stops. His face goes a little red and he takes Steve’s hand while he scans the room. No one is looking in their direction, so he slides Steve’s hand up his leg until he’s palming Bucky’s cock, half hard already. Despite the volume of the music, he can hear the surprised little gasp that Steve makes and watches as his eyes flicker down to Bucky’s lips.

“You’re going to be good for me tonight, right?” Steve asks, voice pitched low, leaning in so close that Bucky can feel his breath on his neck. He strokes Bucky with shallow movements under the table, and Bucky is so pent up with tension he feels like he might explode.

“What happens if I’m not?” Bucky replies with a sinful smile.

Steve reaches into his pocket with his other hand. The plug powers on a second later, just the first setting, but it’s startling enough that Bucky lets out a shocked groan and rocks into Steve’s touch. “I’ll ask again. You’re going to be good for me tonight, right?”

Bucky nods, cock straining in his pants and against Steve’s palm. His voice wavers when he replies, “Yes, sir.”

Steve lets go of him and turns off the plug, then glances up. Alexander Pierce is making his way over, drink in hand. Before he reaches their table, Steve whispers in Bucky’s ear, “Good boy.” He stands and holds his hand out—the one that was just stroking Bucky’s cock under the table—to Pierce. “Director Pierce…”

While they chat, Pierce drags him away toward a group of middle-aged rich guys who all look the same. The room is packed, hundreds of people standing and mulling about in thousand-dollar formalwear. Bucky can’t tell who all is SHIELD and who all are financial backers or government employees. A stage in front of him has a dance floor at the foot of it and a small podium.

Bucky’s body is slow to calm down; he hasn’t gotten off in almost a week. Steve hadn’t given him permission to come and Natasha has been busy, but she met up with him at the gym last week and made him come in his gym shorts after she kicked his ass. Since then, he hasn’t even touched himself. He’s basically dying, and watching Captain fucking America aka Cocktease Extraordinaire charm hundreds of people while wearing a tux and keeping Bucky stuffed up with a plug _is not helping at all_.

So Bucky occupies himself by pulling out his phone and typing under the table, _idk what i should be doing???_ He neglects to add, _besides drooling in the general direction of my incredibly hot boss._

 _Keep looking pretty_ , Natasha replies, but before Bucky can respond, she slides into the seat beside him.

And goddamn is she stunning. Her hair is curled like in the old movies Steve makes him watch sometimes, wearing a black dress that dips down so far Bucky’s eyes fall like a magnet to her cleavage. He looks her up and down and lets out a slow wolf whistle.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she says with a quirk of her eyebrow. Then she leans into him and whispers in his ear, “Are you wearing it?”

Bucky pulls away with a grin and nods. “Please don’t tell me you’ve got your remote. I don’t think I can handle both of you.”

Natasha laughs, a high, lilting sound that Bucky hears too rarely but makes his heart flutter with unrepentant adoration every damn time. “No, Agent Rogers told me to be good.”

“Yeah? Did he say anything else?”

“He told me to keep an eye on you.”

Bucky puts his hand to his chest, hurt. “I am _offended_.”

“It’s almost like he thinks you’re a deviant little brat.”

“Hey,” Bucky replies, “I resemble that remark.”

A server comes by to take Bucky’s drink order. Food arrives eventually too, but Steve doesn’t reappear. Peggy and Angie join Bucky and Natasha at the table, and they have a lovely meal together while Alexander Pierce gives a heart-felt speech about effective partnership, synergy, and other meaningless PR buzzwords.

The food is cleared away and the lights dim. A DJ changes the music to something with a better beat, and within moments, the formal little meet-and-greet is turned into a nightclub.

Bucky leans toward Natasha and shouts over the music, “I don't think I'll ever get used to living like this.”

Natasha gives him an indecipherable look in response, impossible to read in the darkness and because Natasha is, in general, impossible to read. A shadow crosses her face, though, a flicker of something sad.

Angie stands from the table and takes Peggy’s hand to pull her toward the dance floor. More people follow, mostly younger, a few Support staff Bucky recognizes, politicians' assistants, news people, and even some of the clocked-out caterers join too. The space fills up quickly. Natasha grins and says, “C’mon, let’s dance.”

Bucky loosens his tie and tosses his suit jacket over his chair before following Natasha to the dance floor. He rolls up his sleeves on the way, not giving a shit about his metal arm. He’s not drunk, but he’s definitely buzzed, just enough to feel loose and warm and happy despite Steve’s absence. He can’t imagine Captain America dancing anyway, at least not like they dance today. The beat is fast and Natasha is immediately in her element. Bucky’s mind blanks with only the music to fill his brain and Natasha’s familiar body at his fingertips. She’s all hard muscle and curves and the most graceful person he’s ever met.

Time slips away from Bucky until Natasha turns to face him and pulls him down by the tie. Her breath is hot against his ear as she says, “We’ve got an audience.”

Bucky glances away from the dance floor toward where Natasha’s looking, over by the bar about ten paces away. Steve is leaning against it, one hand holding a drink and one hand in his pocket. His gaze is dark as he watches them dance.

“You wanna give him a show?” Bucky asks, grinning and pulling her closer to him.

“Hell yes,” Natasha replies. Bodies surround them on all sides, bumping into them, everyone moving in time with the music. The air is stifling. Natasha turns around so that her back is to Bucky, her ass grinding against his dick. She tips her head back and pulls Bucky down for a kiss that’s way too dirty for public, fingers threaded through his hair.

Bucky moans into her mouth and thrusts harder against her, clutching tightly at her hips. The fabric of her dress bunches in his hands, and he leans down to press kisses against her bare neck. He should be ashamed of himself for getting so hard so fast, but he’s only human. Well, mostly human, slightly cyborg. To make matters worse, his plug keeps shifting inside him. Every time it bumps against his prostate, his breath catches in his chest.

It’s almost too much, especially when Natasha takes his hand and guides it between her legs. They’re mostly hidden from view in the darkness, everyone else dancing with their partners or groups, but Bucky can still feel Steve’s eyes on them. As surreptitiously as he can, Bucky slides his hand up Natasha’s short skirt. He grazes the lace of her panties with the pads of his fingers and feels her sharp intake of breath.

He trails his hand further between her legs, soft skin damp with sweat, damp on the outside of the fabric of her underwear. She shifts her legs open a little wider, so Bucky bunches the front of her panties between his fingers and pulls until the material presses hard against her slit.

Natasha groans and shifts her hips, then turns in his arms so that her chest is pressed against him, arms wrapped around his neck. Bucky reaches between them and touches her again, this position even more conspicuous. He hooks his fingers inside her panties and slides them up and down her folds, swollen and soaked. She rocks into his touch with the beat, and her clit throbs hard against his fingers.

He circles around it until her kisses against his neck turn to panted breaths and hitched moans, and he sinks his middle finger inside her.

“Fuck,” she groans, loud but drowned out by the sound of the music. Bucky follows with his ring finger and fucks them in and out of her, shallow movements of his hand in his limited range of motion. The insides of his knuckles press against her clit, and her dancing does the rest of the work for him.

He risks a glance toward Steve, who’s still staring at them intently, lower lip bitten between his teeth. Despite the lack of lighting, Bucky can see a flush spread across his face. The tips of his ears are probably pink too, and Bucky can’t even imagine how red he must get when he fucks. The thought makes Bucky’s cock throb against Natasha’s hip. Steve lifts his hand out of his pocket and it comes out with a little black cylinder; that's all the warning Bucky gets before the plug starts up again. He yelps with the intensity of it and fucks into Natasha hard with his hand. She gasps too, clings to him while he wraps his other arm around her waist and shifts her so that he can finger her properly, sense of propriety be damned. He leans down to kiss her, the feeling of the plug vibrating inside him and Natasha dripping onto his fingers making him lose all control of himself.

The kiss is hot and desperate and frequently interrupted by heaving breaths. Bucky’s cock is throbbing hard against Natasha’s hip, not nearly enough friction to come—not that Steve or Natasha would give him permission anyway this early in the night. Natasha’s body starts to tense, no longer moving with the beat of the music but with the build-up of her orgasm as she fucks herself on Bucky’s hand.

The vibration ticks up to the second level and Bucky has to stifle the noises threatening to escape him. Natasha, horrible human being that she is, reaches around him and grabs his ass, slides her hand to his crack and presses the plug in deeper.

Bucky pulls her hair in retaliation, exposing her neck and biting down on it, gritting out against her throat, “Fuck you, Romanoff.”

“Later,” she says, breathless, voice husky and strained, “if he lets you.”

So Bucky fingers her faster, metal hand gripping her hair, teeth against her neck, holding her in place while he fucks as deep into her as he can with his hand.

“Fuck fuck _fuck_ , I’m—,” she pants, stilling her movements for the first time since they began dancing, her body locking up with tension. Bucky flicks his wrist just so, the insides of his knuckles rolling around her clit, and she comes hard, slick dripping down into his palm, walls pulsing against his fingers. She cries out loud enough that a couple people glance over but then politely avert their attention again.

Her body starts to tremble, and she clutches at his shirt in an effort to hold herself up. He removes his fingers from her gently and wipes them on his pants—because, he figures, he probably won’t be wearing them that long anyway. He wraps his arms around her waist before she collapses, and she shifts almost all of her weight onto him, forehead pressed against his chest while she catches her breath.

The plug is still vibrating in him. Somewhere along the line, Steve flicked it to the third or fourth setting, and Bucky’s whole body is on fire. He can feel the front of his boxers soaked with precome, the elastic shifting against the head of his cock.

When he looks up toward the bar again, Steve is gone.

“Where’d he go?” Bucky asks, and Natasha looks over, dazed.

“Check your phone,” she says.

He shifts Natasha’s weight to his metal arm and pulls his phone out of his pocket. A text from Steve reads: _Back at the apartment in twenty. Both of you._


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, friends. What happens in this chapter is the random-ass daydream that inspired this entire fic. 
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and support on the last chapter! And big thanks also to my guest beta, [curva](http://www.curva.tumblr.com).

“You think we’re in trouble?” Bucky asks as they make their way through the groups of remaining partygoers. Natasha is hoisted on his back wearing his suit jacket and carrying her heels in her hands. She didn’t want to put them back on and he didn’t want her to step on glass outside, so piggy-backing it is.

“Probably,” Natasha replies as Bucky reaches the curb and tries to hail a taxi. “The fun kind, I imagine.”

“What’s the worst punishment you’ve ever gotten?” Bucky asks. Two taxis and a few dozen cars pass but don’t stop for them.

“James Buchanan Barnes, how dare you insinuate I was ever bad enough for punishment.” She squeezes her arms tighter around his neck and leans down to lick behind his ear. It forces Bucky to drop his hailing hand and close his eyes. There’s no goddamn way he’s going to live through this night. At least Steve had the decency to turn the plug off, but Bucky’s hard-on basically hasn’t waned at all. “C’mon, no dilly-dallying, we have a very toppy historical icon to appease.”

Bucky raises his arm again, but a cab passes right by them, and Natasha continues, “Let’s see...there was the time he withheld my sybian from me, which...rude. A lot of spankings, time-outs, orgasm denial…”

A couple walk by them and give Natasha and Bucky dirty looks. Natasha shouts at them, “ORGASMS!” and waves her arms around. Bucky laughs so hard he almost loses his balance, and the couple speeds up to get away from them.

Finally a cab pulls over and Natasha clamors off his back and inside. Bucky follows, and immediately feels sorry for the poor cab driver, because as soon as he gives the guy the address, Natasha pulls Bucky in by the tie for another kiss.

“You’re insatiable when you’re drunk,” Bucky murmurs against her lips.

“One,” Natasha replies, biting and tugging at his lower lip, “I don’t get drunk. Two, I’m always insatiable. I’m just good at hiding it. I’m less good at hiding it around you.”

“That make me special?” Bucky might be a bit insatiable too, because he reaches under her skirt again and strokes her. She’s still wet, and she lets out a soft sigh at his touch.

“There’s a reason I picked you for Agent Rogers.”

***

Bucky pauses in front of the door to Steve’s apartment and looks at Natasha. “Alright, how do I look?”

“Like you just got fucked by the Dallas Cowboys. What about me?”

Bucky looks her up and down. Her skirt is riding up far enough that he can see the tops of her stockings. She’s still wearing his jacket, and her hair is ruffled, makeup smudged a little bit. Her lips are bright red, not from lipstick, but from Bucky being unable to keep himself off of her.

“Beautiful,” he says, with total honesty.

Natasha snorts and shoves his shoulder. “You’re the worst.”

“So...do we have any idea what’s going to happen?”

“No clue. Despite my total lack of self-control around you, I actually didn’t break the rules often enough for real punishment.”

“Who knew you were such a goodie-two-shoes. No wonder you got paired up with Rog–”

The door opens and Steve stares at both of them, features trained in a mask of blankness. It’s the face he makes when he’s about to give a speech about the importance of America and honor and bravery and puppies. Bucky has only ever seen it on TV or in pictures before, never in person. It chills him right down to his bones and makes him want to drop to his knees.

“That’s _Agent_  Rogers, Sergeant,” Steve says, icy blue eyes boring into Bucky and wrenching his soul apart. He can’t get his phone out to text, so he telepathically asks Natasha, _Is he really mad? I can’t tell. Are we about to get fucked or fired? Oh god._

Natasha must have gotten the message, because she says, “Agent Rogers, we can explain–”

Steve doesn’t even interrupt her. He just gives her a stern look, and it’s enough to stop her dead in her tracks with a little hitched gasp before she purses her mouth shut.

“I asked you both to be good,” Steve says, quiet and even. “Were you?”

Before Bucky can stop himself, he replies, “Good is kind of vague, don’t you think?” God help him for not knowing when to keep his mouth shut. “There’s no way we could have lived up to such ambiguous expectations.” He did this in basic training, too, whenever he got in trouble. He had to run a lot of laps and do a lot of push-ups because he didn’t know how to turn off the little switch in his brain that spews out whatever the fuck he’s thinking. His ma always told him not to talk back, but he never really learned his lesson.

Natasha elbows him in the ribs and Bucky winces. “He meant ‘no’, sir. And we’re very sorry. We would appreciate the opportunity to make it up to you.”

Steve appraises them for a handful of seconds until Bucky suitably regrets his life choices. Bucky can’t meet his eyes, still isn’t sure if this is sexy or serious or some weird combination of both, but he’s still hard as a fucking rock and it’s starting to become a real problem.

“Inside, both of you,” Steve says, and steps aside so they can enter the apartment. Bucky lets out the breath he’d been holding, and Natasha gives him a sidelong glance. Her lips quirk up in a small smile, eyes alight with excitement. The realization of fucking, not firing, settles in his gut and he relaxes.

Steve takes one of the chairs from the kitchen table and brings it over beside the couch. “Natasha, couch. Bucky,” he orders, and points to the seat, “chair.”

Natasha shrugs off Bucky’s jacket and hangs it on the peg by the door, sets her shoes down and then takes a seat in the center of the couch. Bucky takes a seat where Steve directed.

They glance at each other while Steve rounds in front of them, unbuttoning his jacket. He slides it off his shoulders as he says, “Bucky, tell me your words.”

“Red/yellow/green,” Bucky replies.

Steve tosses the jacket on the arm of the couch, then unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeves and rolls each of them up to his elbows. “Natasha, your safeword?”

“Lullabye,” she replies. Bucky’s never experienced Natasha subbing before, and he has a feeling tonight is going to replace every memory in his spank bank from here to eternity.

“Good.” Steve stands in front of Bucky and stares down at him. Bucky meets his gaze as Steve unbuckles his belt and slowly slides it out from its loops. It makes a snapping sound that goes straight to Bucky’s dick. “Hands behind the chair, Buck.”

“Sir,” Natasha interjects, “with all due respect, James can and probably will break through bindings. I’m not sure if you’ve seen his headboard–”

Bucky doesn’t move his hands from where they rest squeezing his thighs, but Steve circles behind the chair anyway and squats down. “Thank you for your input, Natasha, but this is a test.” Steve’s mouth is right by Bucky’s ear, and he says, “Arms behind the chair, Buck. I’m not going to ask you again.” He reaches up and runs a hand slowly down Bucky’s right arm, stopping at his hand and holding it. Steve’s touch feels like electricity over his skin. His stomach flips and a hot flush rolls over his body. Bucky is so engrossed in the feel of Steve touching him that he lets Steve pull his hand behind the chair. His metal one follows, and then warm leather wraps around his wrists, pinning him in place. “If you break the belt, I’ll break it across your backside. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky mutters, a chill running down his spine. Steve twists two fingers between the leather strap and Bucky’s wrist to test the tightness, then stands and approaches Natasha again. Bucky aches for his touch as soon as he leaves, and feels suddenly empty and lonely and, fuck, _needy_. But it’s an indulgent feeling, the wanting, because he knows Steve won’t leave him like this. If he’s good, anyway.

“I’ll keep the rules simple,” Steve begins. “One, you can’t ask for permission to come, the other has to ask on your behalf, and permission must be granted.” He glares at Bucky. “By me. I can see the gears turning already. Don’t try to twist the rules, Buck.” A guilty flush tinges Bucky’s face. Steve continues, “Two, complete silence. Every noise you make will be added to the grand total of spankings the other will receive.”

Bucky groans and Natasha says, “But sir–”

“That’s one for both of you. To receive your reward, you’ll need cooperation and teamwork, understood?”

Bucky starts to say, “Ye–” but Natasha glares at him and shakes her head. He closes his mouth.

“That’s two for Natasha,” Steve adds, a small smile playing on his lips at effectively tricking Bucky. He takes the remote out of his pocket and switches it on to the first setting. Bucky’s body jolts with the sensation, and he bites his lip to stifle a gasp, writhing in his seat.

Steve tosses the remote on the couch and then settles on his knees in front of Natasha. His look is appraising and predatory, like he wants to devour her. God, Bucky would kill for Steve to look at him like that. Steve runs his hands up Natasha’s thighs until her skirt is bunched around her hips, and he leans in to kiss her. Bucky’s heart speeds up with the knowledge that those are the lips he’d just kissed, and now Steve is kissing them too. Hell, it trips Bucky out to see him kissing at all. And Jesus does he look good at it.

Natasha melts under his touch, sighs softly and deepens the kiss. She presses into him and threads her fingers in his hair, nips and pulls at his lower lip.

Steve runs his hands up to her slim waist, huge against her small frame. Bucky knows Natasha is tough as nails, can beat his ass to the ground and probably give Steve a run for his money, too, but right now she looks vulnerable and pliant, all of her trust and faith in Steve reaching the surface. A pang of gratitude hits Bucky hard, being able to see their intimacy like this. It overtakes the envy for a moment, the itch of needing attention and all eyes on him.

Steve runs his fingertips over each of Natasha’s shoulders, slipping the straps of her dress down as he kisses her neck, her collarbone, her chest. He lowers the top of her dress so that her breasts are exposed, then he kisses his way over to a nipple and laves a slow circle around it with his tongue.

Natasha lets out a breathy little moan, and Steve pulls away. “Two for Bucky.” She darts her eyes to Bucky and mouths, _Sorry_. Bucky gives her a playful sneer in response–by the way she’s smiling, she’s not sorry at all.

Bucky has a perfect view from this angle, of Natasha’s lace-topped stockings, just a peek of her ruined black panties. She threads her fingers through Steve’s hair and bites her lip to keep from making any noise. Steve moves to the other nipple and pinches the first between his thumb and forefinger, tugging at it. Once he makes his way down her body, he reaches up her skirt and hooks his fingers around her underwear, and she lifts her hips up so he can pull them off of her. He tosses them to the side and grasps her hips, picking her up and pulling her to the edge of the couch.

When he kisses up the inside of her thigh and meets the crevice of her lips, he teases kisses until she’s gripping his hair with both hands and twitching her hips against his face.

“Please,” she begs, a strung-out whisper.

Bucky can hear rather than see Steve smile against her, and he says, “That’s three,” but then acquiesces and licks a long stripe up her slit. Natasha lets in a sharp intake of breath and squeezes her eyes shut.

Steve, the bastard, moans against her as he eats her out, and _fuck_ , the sight is so goddamn hot that Bucky could probably come completely untouched at this point, Steve settled between Natasha’s legs and going at her like his mouth was made for pussy-eating. This is how Bucky dies, he thinks, in a threesome with century-old superhero and an ex-KGB agent. It’s too much. It’s not enough. He doesn’t even realize that he’s twisting the belt binding his wrists, can feel the leather begin to crack and warp. He doesn’t _want_  to break it, but he sure as hell wouldn’t mind getting broken by it. What’s the worst that could happen? He supposes that Steve could exile him to his bedroom and not let him come, which, if Bucky is honest with himself, sounds like an infinitely worse fate than _literally anything else_.

So Bucky wills himself to ease off the belt and instead watches the proceedings, enrapt in Steve lapping at Natasha’s cunt. His hands are splayed around her thighs, holding her in place, fingers leaving little divots in her perfect porcelain skin. Her head is thrown back against the couch, one hand cupping her own breast and twisting at a nipple and the other in Steve’s hair.

Steve moves one of his hands from her thighs and slips two fingers into his mouth to wet, then slowly slides them inside her. She groans, loud, and Steve huffs a derisive laugh. “Four.”

“Oh come on,” Bucky says, only a little out of spite.

“Three for Natasha.”

Natasha and Bucky glare at each other and then fall silent. She un-threads her fingers from Steve’s hair to bite down on her knuckles.

Steve begins fucking her with his hand in a steady rhythm while he buries his face between her legs. He knows all the same tricks for Natasha that Bucky does, to press a little harder when her breath speeds up, to slow down and tease when she gets close.

Natasha watches Bucky as Steve goes down on her, and Bucky relaxes a little bit. Voyeurism is the perfect punishment for an exhibitionist, but Natasha watching him eases the ache a little. He shifts in his chair so that his cock can at least press onto his zipper; it’s uncomfortable, but it’s better than nothing.

Steve notices Bucky’s movement from the corner of his eye and sits back on his heels. He removes his fingers from Natasha and rocks up on his feet, steps over to Bucky, and shoves his fingers in Bucky’s mouth. Steve tastes like Natasha, all thick and sour-sweet, and Bucky takes the opportunity to lick it all off, making a show of it, pulling off to run his tongue around Steve’s fingers while he looks him in the eye. If there’s one thing Bucky is great at, it’s sucking. Steve fucks his fingers slowly into Bucky’s throat, and he revels in the redness that spreads up Steve’s neck, at the bulge in his expensive dress pants, right at Bucky’s eye-level. What Bucky wouldn’t give for Steve to unfasten his pants and shove his cock down his throat until there are tears in his eyes...

Steve removes his fingers to trail down Bucky’s body and unbutton his pants. He pulls Bucky’s cock out from his boxers, and Bucky’s stomach flutters with excitement. Steve is finally paying attention to him, soothing this yearning need that’s been building up since the last time he touched him. It seems like an eternity ago.

But instead, he leaves Bucky like that: open and exposed, leaking beads of precome down himself. Then he has the audacity, on his way back to Natasha, to pick up the remote and switch the plug to the next setting.

Bucky bites his lip so hard to keep from making any noise that he can taste copper in his mouth, and he realizes, distantly, that this might be the best night of his entire life. It’s all downhill from here. There’s just nothing better than the unrelenting burn of want, nothing better than watching Captain America brace himself on the back of the couch while he reaches between a Natasha’s legs, slides two fingers inside her, and fucks her with them, fast and hard.

Except for maybe fucking Bucky the same way.

“Oh fuck,” Natasha says, startled, gripping the couch cushions until her knuckles turn white.

“That’s five,” Steve replies, and pounds into her harder, slamming against her g-spot, slick wet noises echoing in the silence. Natasha gasps and lets out an occasional moan. Steve counts each one.

Around nine, Bucky blurts out, “Let her come.”

“Four for Natasha,” Steve says.

“The hell? You said…”

“Five.”

Natasha would probably tell him what he’s doing wrong if she were capable of coherent thought. Her face is contorted in frustrated ecstasy, legs spread apart, focused only on not coming until she gets permission.

Permission. _Shit._  God, Bucky is an idiot. “Please, sir, may she come?”

“Convince me.” Steve slows down just enough to get on his knees again and begin sucking at her clit, shoving a third finger into her. Natasha manages to stop making noise, but only just.

Fuck. Bucky can’t think. His entire brain is in his dick. “Uhh...I mean, look at her, please, sir. She’s so close. She’s doing the breathing thing. You don’t want her to hyperventil–”

“Beg me,” Steve adds, muffled in Natasha’s cunt.

Bucky sounds desperate even to his own ears. He kind of is, though, a knot of tension in his stomach at not being able to give Natasha what she needs. “Please, Agent Rogers. Please. I’ll do whatever you want. She’s so good, sir. She’s been so good for you. Please let her come, sir. Please.” Bucky is babbling, but he can’t help it. The belt around his wrists is ripping apart with his need to get out of the chair and finish Natasha off if Steve won’t, further punishment be damned.

Steve lifts off of her just long enough to say, “She may,” and then dive back in. Natasha’s orgasm hits her so hard she screams, and Bucky doesn’t even want to know what number to add to the count for it. A flood of come drips down Steve’s hand and arm, wetting the sleeve of his white shirt. He slows, moving with the waves of her orgasm. It lasts forever, and Bucky is so enrapt in it that he forgets his dick for a minute. He feels like he just came too, even though he’s still painfully hard and soaking wet.

Natasha continues rocking against Steve’s face, both hands in his hair, pushing him against her. She finally manages to silence herself, but Steve doesn’t let her go, and her breath picks up again. She comes a second time, maybe a third and a fourth too, Bucky can’t tell anymore; it’s just a long wave of intensity. By the end of it, Bucky feels totally broken.

Steve finally releases her, leans back on his heels and wipes the back of his face with his dry hand. Natasha slumps over on the couch, heaving breaths. She pulls the remote from under her and flips it off. Bucky breathes a sigh of relief.

Steve gets up and unties Bucky, but loops the belt around Bucky’s shoulders. “Follow me,” he says, and stops at the couch to pick up Natasha bridal-style, lifting her like she weighs nothing. Bucky tucks himself back in his pants and follows Steve into his own bedroom, where he lays Natasha on Bucky’s bed.

“I’m going to clean up. When I come back, I want both of you naked and ready for round two.”

“Jesus,” Bucky whispers.

Steve heads out of the room and calls behind him, “That’s six for Natasha.”

***

Bucky moves quickly, stripping out of his clothes and helping Natasha out of hers. He takes a bit too much pleasure in rolling off her stockings, Bucky kneeling at the end of the bed while he kisses down the exposed skin left in the nylon’s wake. Every brush of his lips against her makes her gasp, hypersensitive. When he’s finished and kisses back up her body to her lips, she whispers, “You doing okay?”

“I mean, I feel like I’m shattering into a million pieces, but otherwise pretty good.” Bucky slides up the bed beside her, puts a hand on her waist and leans in to kiss her again. He can barely control his own body anymore. ‘Touch-craved’ doesn’t even begin to describe it. “You?”

She smiles with a kind of deep serenity, like she’s floating down a river on a warm summer day. “Pretty damn great.”

They kiss slow and lazy, until Steve clears his throat in the doorway. “I hate to interrupt, but the spankings aren’t going to issue themselves.” Bucky breaks away from Natasha and glances to Steve, naked except for a pair of black briefs, the long line of his cock straining against them. He cups himself in his hand as he walks in the room.

Bucky is so hard that an aptly placed gust of wind could make him come. “Holy–”

Natasha covers his mouth with her hand and gives him a stern look.

“Seven for Natasha.” The brief intermission did nothing to smooth out the strictness in Steve’s voice. “Buck, on your knees.”

Bucky deliberates–and by deliberates, he means his brain turns to white noise because all his mental energy is being fueled to his dick. There’s an itch inside him that tells him if he does something wrong on purpose, Steve might get mad enough that he’ll let Bucky come faster. Conversely, he might not get mad enough and then draw it out for longer. Or worse yet, not let him come at all. Or Bucky could come anyway and face the consequences.

It’s a good thing Natasha is there, because she frowns at him like she can read his mind. He gets the distinct telepathic message of, _You have to want to be good._  But he doesn’t want to be good. He wants to blow his load.

Finally, he relents. The fastest path to orgasm is, as Steve mentioned, teamwork and cooperation, like some kind of fucked-up BDSM summer camp. Bucky gets on his knees and clasps his hands together in front of him, already knowing what’s going to come next.

He feels the mattress dip as Steve kneels on the bed behind him, running a warm hand up and down his ass. “Finally getting the hang of this, rookie,” Steve tells him, an edge of pride in his voice. Something about the way he says _rookie_  makes Bucky’s stomach flip. “Natasha, tie his wrists together.”

Bucky wants to ask, maybe a little resentfully, _Why isn’t Natasha ever tied up?_  and it occurs to him that it might be one of her limits, or, more likely, it’s just because he has virtually no impulse control.

Natasha retrieves Bucky’s necktie and binds his wrists together. She checks the tightness and then lies down beside him, her head on the pillow and running her fingers through his hair.

Steve pushes the plug a little deeper, rolls it around so that it presses up against Bucky’s prostate. Bucky bites back the startled gasp in his throat. His cock is hanging hard and heavy between his legs, come dripping out of him in a steady stream. Natasha and Steve’s hands on his body are simultaneously relieving and debilitating.

“You’re at a solid dozen, Buck,” Steve says. He’s so close to Bucky that the cotton of his briefs slides against Bucky’s ass. If he took them off and pulled out the plug, Steve could just slide right in, fill Bucky up, make him come all over himself, messy and wanting without even touching him; continue pounding into him until he cries and breaks the headboard for good this time.

But Bucky tries not to think about that. Instead he focuses on Steve’s words. “Natasha, I want you to count out loud for me. Ready?”

Bucky barely has time to nod his assent before Steve takes his hand away and brings it back down again with a crack against Bucky’s ass. Bucky buries his face in his pillow and bites down on the fabric to keep from making any noise.

“One,” Natasha says, her hand still running through his hair. She presses a kiss against his head.

Steve brings his hand down again, this time on Bucky’s other side. White-hot pain shoots through his body, and he’s so wound-up that he can’t even tell the difference between pain and pleasure anymore. Any and every kind of touch sets his body on fire.

“Two,” Natasha says.

Bucky begins to space out, go to his calm place where all he can hear or feel is his heartbeat. He felt it in the moments before pulling the trigger on his rifle, a beautiful place of serenity and calm. He feels this way, too, when Steve draws him; whenever he’s around Steve, really, an overwhelming sense of trust that he’s cared for and protected. It’s one of the perks of being in the presence of Captain America: you know he’s always looking out for you.

But Bucky is so far gone that he’s lost complete control of himself. The only things holding him up are his forearms and knees, but they’re both beginning to tremble. A hot coil of familiar pressure builds at the base of his spine, and it doesn’t seem physically possible, but he can feel himself balance precariously on the edge of coming, just from Steve’s hand hammering against his ass. In the distance, he hears Natasha say, “Seven,” and a dark, obscure panic begins to boil up in him. He doesn’t want to come, not yet, not until he gets permission, and Natasha doesn’t even know to ask yet–

“Yellow,” Bucky gasps.

Faster than he can comprehend, Steve is untying his wrists and laying him on his side. Natasha’s hand is on his face and she’s looking into his eyes which are very slowly coming back into focus. Steve tilts his chin toward him and asks, “You okay, Buck?”

Bucky takes a deep breath and lets Steve and Natasha hold him. “Yeah, I just...it was a little too much.”

Natasha runs a soothing hand over his side. Steve’s strong arms are wrapped around him and Bucky feels warm and safe and happy, if not still pent up and feeling like he’s going to explode.

“Sir, if I may,” Natasha begins, “I believe we’ve learned our lesson and I suggest we move on to our reward.”

Steve gives her a hard look. “Presumptuous of you.”

“She’s just trying to get out of her punishment,” Bucky says.

Natasha tries and fails to stifle her smile. Steve lasts a little longer before he breaks out into a goofy grin and looks down at Bucky. “You want to keep going or would you rather call it a night?”

“Are you kidding?” Bucky asks. “Keep going. I’m fine now, I promise.”

Steve looks up at Natasha like they’re having a conversation that Bucky isn’t privy to. Finally, Steve tells her, “You already know your next order.”

Natasha’s eyes go wide. “Really? You mean we can…” She trails off, and Bucky’s never seen her look so excited before.

“I think we’ve all earned it.” Steve gets up from the bed and Natasha shifts Bucky on his back before climbing onto his lap. Bucky is totally lost, but anything that Natasha and Steve are so excited about, he’s one-hundred percent in for.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks, thumbing over his lip.

Bucky holds her thighs in his hands, and she lowers herself until she’s pressed against his cock, sliding back and forth with little movements of her hips. “I’m fine,” Bucky bites out, and just like that, he’s hard again, “I promise.”

She gives him a filthy grin and then reaches between her legs to grab Bucky’s cock and guide it into herself. Bucky lets out a low moan and his eyes flutter closed. This is the first bit of real attention his dick has gotten in a millennium.

Steve returns and settles between Bucky’s legs while Natasha starts to fuck herself onto Bucky, slow but deep, her hands on his chest while she rides him. Steve runs his wide, rough palms up and down Bucky’s thighs. Over Natasha’s shoulder, Bucky can see him watching her fuck him, lip bitten between his teeth.

And then a very strange sensation happens, and Bucky finally understands what’s going on. Two of Steve’s lubed fingers slide in beside Bucky’s cock, stretching Natasha open.

 _“Fuck,”_  Bucky groans, because he’s allowed to now and he also can’t believe this is actually his life.

“Are you sure–” Steve whispers in Natasha’s ear. The sight of Steve behind Natasha, brushing her hair aside kissing her bare shoulder while she rides Bucky is almost too much to handle.

“We’ve been over this, Agent Rogers,” Natasha replies with a bossy, breathy lilt to her voice that Bucky has frequently been on the other side of but has never heard directed at Steve. God, Bucky wants to be part of these conversations they apparently have. Do they talk about him? Do they talk about fucking him? Bucky doesn’t have time to dwell on these questions, because Steve’s fingers are still sliding up and down the length of him and Natasha is still fucking onto him and yep, Bucky is dying.

“Are you ready?” Steve asks.

“Yes, sir,” she replies, and goes still.

Bucky can feel the tip of Steve’s cock pressed against him, slowly lining up beside him and stretching Natasha open. She shifts a little, sinks down further onto both of them at once. Then Steve hitches his hips and he’s all the way inside, shoved together inside her. Everything in Bucky’s perception boils down to the intense feeling of tightness enveloping him. He can barely breathe.

Natasha hitches with each inhale, eyes closed like she’s in pain. Bucky reaches up and brushes her hair out of her face while Steve peppers her shoulders with kisses and runs a hand up and down her side. His other is on Bucky’s, holding it tightly, and Bucky has never felt happier or more complete in his whole life.

Natasha sits up and bears down again, mouth falling open and a low groan escaping her throat. She does it again and picks up a rhythm. Bucky and Steve keep still while she adjusts to the feeling, loosens around them until the pained expression quickly turns to a pleasurable one.

“Oh my god,” she says, rocking onto them. “I’ve always wanted to do this–fuck, this is amazing.”

There is no way in hell that Bucky is going to last like this, not when Natasha’s wet, tight heat is enveloping him and Steve’s cock is sliding against his and there’s a plug up his ass that just won’t stop hitting the exact right spot. He feels like his body could go nuclear at any moment, like he’s suffocating yet breathing for the first time in his life.

Natasha leans forward and kisses Bucky while Steve takes over, fucks her hard and deep, sets a pace that Bucky can match. Steve’s fingers are between his, holding on tight, and Natasha is devouring his mouth between loud moans that border on shouting. He can see Steve over Natasha’s shoulder, pounding into her, chest flush-red and the tops of his cheeks pink too. His hair is a mess and Bucky has never seen or felt anything so beautiful.

Bucky’s body starts to tense, his breathing speeds up, and he’s so close he can taste it. Pressure builds up inside him until his vision starts to blur, and somewhere across the galaxy, he hears Natasha ask, “Permission for James to come, sir?”

Steve’s movements are erratic, shallow thrusts into Natasha, the head of his enormous cock bumping and sliding against Bucky’s. He replies a tight, strained, “Granted.” The fact that he’s losing it a bit–Steve Rogers, Captain fucking America, letting go of his restrained, perpetually calm demeanor–is what pushes Bucky over the edge.

Bucky comes so hard he sees stars. He can’t even tell if he makes any noise or if Natasha silences him with kisses. His body is one singular point of pleasure with a heartbeat, and he nearly comes again when he feels the hard, hot pulse of Steve coming too, and Natasha’s walls clenching and fluttering around them. Steve fucks them through it, slick and hot, until he finally stills, forehead pressed against Natasha’s back. Bucky’s come mixed with Steve’s starts to drip out, trailing down his balls and onto the bed.

Bucky breathes like he’s been rescued from drowning. He barely registers the feeling of Natasha rolling to one side of him, of Steve sliding off the bed. Natasha might get up too, Bucky can’t tell. He can’t move, or think, or feel anything at all. He’s totally spent and useless. If Steve gave him a direct order right now, there’d be nothing he could do about it.

A couple minutes pass, or maybe a couple years, who knows. Steve returns with a warm wet cloth to clean up. He pulls Bucky to sitting and makes him drink a glass of water, runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair and looks at him like he does when he’s drawing him, like Bucky is good and special and worth being loved by the greatest hero who ever lived. Bucky leans against him. Steve’s skin is soft and fever-hot, his body as sturdy as a brick wall.

Natasha returns wearing a clean pair of plain black panties. Bucky vaguely wonders where the hell she got them, but then she and Steve are pressing him back to the bed, Natasha on one side of him, wrapped in his arms, and Steve on the other. Steve trails his fingertips over Bucky’s skin, soothing his sore muscles and giving him chills.

“Bucky sandwich,” Bucky mumbles into Natasha’s hair.

Like before, Steve finds Bucky’s hand and entwines their fingers together. Bucky could get used to this, holding hands with Steve. He doesn’t know what it means. Right now, he doesn’t know anything at all.

After a few minutes, when Natasha’s breathing grows deep and even, and Bucky is edging into sleep too, Steve whispers, “Hey, Buck?”

“Hmm?” Bucky replies.

Steve hesitates for a moment, then says, “No matter what happens, I want you to remember this.” There’s something in his voice Bucky can’t read, an ounce of remorse or sadness maybe. He squeezes Bucky’s hand, and Bucky squeezes back.

But he’s drifting off too quickly parse out what Steve means, so he manages a muttered, “Yessir,” in response. There’s no way he could ever forget.

“Good,” Steve says, more to himself than Bucky. “Good.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man. *sets cement brick down* Sorry for the hiatus. *sets another brick beside it* But good news! *begins building fort around self* This fic is now completed, and there will be five more chapters. *fort gets tall enough to hide self* All tags have been added, and I plan to post a chapter per week. *voice muffled from completed fort* Happy reading!

Whatever Bucky thought was Steve at his coldest doesn’t even begin to compare to the sub-zero temperatures of today. Bucky can’t figure out what he did wrong. The press tour bummed him out, obviously, but it’s coming to a close so Bucky thought that everything would get back to normal again—home-cooked meals and drawing sessions and cuddling. Hell, now Bucky feels guilty he ever thought that wasn’t enough.

Bucky has barely seen Steve since the threesome. He wakes up before Bucky does and comes home late. He doesn’t eat breakfast anymore, but a half a pot of coffee always waits for Bucky when he wakes up. Most nights, Steve doesn’t eat dinner, either, and Bucky has to leave the leftovers in the staff room.

On Wednesday, Bucky wears jeans and a t-shirt because there’s nothing on his calendar and he wants to see if Steve notices. Steve comes home, sets his briefcase down, takes off his jacket, and goes straight to his bedroom, mumbling something about, “Evening, Buck.”

Bucky doesn’t think he’s made eye contact with Steve in over a week. He’s not sure if the rules they decided are off the table, if he’s allowed to come on his own now, but he’s too afraid to ask. It occurs to him to fake a nightmare and see if Steve will come to his rescue again, but that’s too desperate even for him. Eventually he breaks down and texts Natasha about it: _Did I do something wrong?_

_N: ???_

_B: Rogers wont talk to me_

_N: Why?_

_B: idk hes just gone ice mode_

_N: Did you try making cookies? He always comes around for cookies._

_B: I did but he didnt eat any and then I ate too many and had to give them to Angie_

_N: Wow that sounds...bad._

_B: Is it me?_

_N: I don’t think so? Let me talk to him._

Whatever Natasha does works...sort of. Steve comes home at the normal time the next day and eats dinner with Bucky, though he won’t talk or make eye contact. Bucky has lived with him long enough that the silence is normally comfortable—standard practice, even, but this time it makes Bucky want to cry. He didn’t even cry when he threw himself on an IED and thought he was dying. He certainly didn’t cry when he woke back up to a missing limb. It sounds so pathetic and immature when he thinks it, but he just wants Steve to want him the same way he wants Steve. He wants it so bad, he physically hurts from it.

He feels all wrong inside, like the person he is just isn’t good enough for Captain America no matter how hard he works for his praise and approval. He’d been trying, God he’d been trying so hard—

Steve finishes his dinner and clears off his own setting without saying a word. He’s never done that before except on Sundays when Bucky doesn’t have to. At this point, Bucky is questioning his own existence. When his little sister used to get mad at him, she’d give him the silent treatment for days on end. Eventually he’d crack and apologize for whatever it was, even if it wasn’t his fault, because he couldn’t stand the thought of Becka being mad at him. What Steve is doing triggers all those long-forgotten insecurities, and he’s close to begging for forgiveness for whatever he did wrong. Every moment that passes without Steve’s acknowledgement makes him spiral further. He’s so ashamed of himself and he doesn’t know why.

Thankfully, Steve flips on the TV instead of going to his bedroom, some shitty sitcom Bucky can’t stand and Steve doesn’t actually watch. He uses it as a means of staring into space, his thoughts elsewhere.

Since Bucky hasn’t been told otherwise, he finishes the dishes and takes off his clothes to kneel by Steve’s feet. He’s sitting close but not touching, a throw pillow under his knees. He wants to lean on Steve’s leg like he usually does, drifting into sleep out of boredom and the kind of inner calm that only comes from Steve’s ministrations.

After the first half-hour, Bucky’s resolve to keep his distance crumbles. He shifts between Steve’s legs, his back against the couch and his knees tucked to his chest, a totally childish way of putting himself in Steve’s line of sight. It’s a desperate plea for _rub my head please, sir_. But it’s not like he can just _say_ that.

Bucky can see Steve’s hands resting on his knees in his peripheral vision, fingers squeezing his legs either out of irritation or an attempt to stop himself from touching Bucky.

“What are you doing, Sergeant?” he asks. His voice is flat like cardboard, more monotone than the little toy action figure Bucky had of him growing up, where he could pull a string and Captain America would say things like, “Be the hero I know you can be!” and—the nineties were a weird time for everyone—”Cowabunga, America!”

Fast-forward twenty years, and Bucky just now realizes that Steve never talks about America at all, or heroism. He doesn’t stand behind podiums or give inspiring speeches. He rarely smiles, and a dark shadow always hides behind his eyes that somehow all the modern-day pictures of him leave out.

“I’m…” Bucky begins, but the rest of the sentence is the truth: _having a revelation about you, please hold_. Fuck, Bucky has been so unfair. Steve isn’t Captain and Captain isn’t Steve, just like he’s been saying this whole damn time. Steve is that scrawny kid from Brooklyn, the one who tossed himself on bombs and got beaten all to hell. Steve likes to draw and has the dumbest fucking laugh Bucky has ever heard but makes his heart pound in his chest whenever he hears it. Captain America isn’t even a person. It’s an idea, a commodity to be bought and sold to the moral high ground of whatever party is in power.

Bucky turns around and gets on his knees again, between Steve’s legs, looking up at him for the first time, not as his idol or his boss, but as something...else. Something that’s right on the tip of his tongue but he can’t quite form into words yet. If he gets started he won’t shut up, will get all sappy and say shit he’ll regret later, things that might compromise whatever shred of a professional relationship they have.

Steve looks down at him with curious coldness, distant like he’s analyzing a painting in a museum and not a war-torn ex-soldier who’s too broken to get his emotional shit together.

He runs his hands up Steve’s thighs, thick as cement bricks and just as hard. He stares at the fly of Steve’s dress pants, at the belt that not a week ago was restraining Bucky’s wrists. It’s still cracked in the couple spots he almost destroyed it.

“I just want to make you feel good,” Bucky says, meeting Steve’s gaze, and it might be the most honest he’s ever been. His hands reach Steve’s hips, and he trails kisses up his inseam.

“I don’t think that’s appropriate, Sergeant,” Steve replies. His voice hasn’t wavered from its total lack of intonation; despondent and disinterested.

It doesn’t deter Bucky. “So stop me,” he says, nosing at the juncture of Steve’s thigh and pelvis, breathing in, body ready for Steve to grip his hair and pull him back. Anything to get his touch, his acknowledgement at least, if not his approval; shatter the glass they’ve been watching each other through for months.

“Bucky,” Steve says, but it’s a whisper, an exhale. Bucky can’t tell if he’s pleading for him to stop or keep going, so he slowly unbuckles Steve’s belt.

Steve grips Bucky’s hair, pulling him back with a pained grimace. “I don’t think we should do this,” he says, casual in the way someone thinks a second helping of ice cream is a bad idea.

“Why not?” Bucky asks.

“Because I don’t tip.”

The words slice into Bucky’s heart until he’s short of breath. He pulls away like Steve threw ice water on him, taking Steve’s wrist and pushing it away from his head. “What?”

Steve lets his hand fall to the couch. “You’re getting paid for this. SHIELD won’t pay you more just for blowing me. Especially if I’m not asking for it.”

“I’m not asking for more money.”

Steve looks at him like he’s speaking another language. “Then why are you doing this?”

“Jesus, how fucking dense are you? I’m doing it because I want to.”

Doubt cracks into Steve’s stern glare. “You...what?”

“I want to,” Bucky says again, and for emphasis adds, “I want _you_.”

“No, you don’t.” It’s a command, blunt and to the point.

Bucky stands his ground. “You can boss me around, but you can’t tell me what I want and don’t want.”

The coldness and doubt crumbles, sadness overcoming Steve’s normally stoic features. Bucky has never seen him like this, so open. He shakes his head again and squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t lie to me, Buck. I can’t handle it.”

“I’m not lying, Steve.”

“It’s—”

“Agent Rogers, yeah I know, but not right now. I’m Bucky and you’re Steve and I want you. Not Captain America. Not Agent Rogers. Just Steve. For as long as you’ll have me.” His heart is hammering in his chest. He can’t hear anything but blood rushing in his ears. He realizes it’s true the moment it escapes him: “I’m in love with you, Steve.” 

Steve stares, fierce blue eyes piercing into him, the cloud of fog that had been around his head suddenly lifting. His chest stops moving with his breath, and Bucky isn’t sure if Steve is going to hit him or kiss him. Instead, he reaches out and cups Bucky’s face in his hand, his big rough palm skating over the stubble of Bucky’s chin. He holds him like Bucky is made of porcelain, something precious to be broken.

“I can’t do this,” Steve says. His voice nearly cracks as he says it, but he swallows it down, looking away, eyes glassy with tears.

Bucky opens his mouth to speak, but all the words he wants to say stop dead in his throat.

Steve lets go of him, turns off the TV, and goes to his bedroom, locking the door behind him.

***

Bucky doesn’t sleep that night. He hears Steve moving around in the apartment before the sun rises, and the front door opens and shuts five minutes before Bucky’s alarm goes off. The apartment is silent after that.

He doesn’t bother moving, pillow clutched to his chest. He watches the minutes tick by, red numbers counting down to whatever is causing the dread settled in the pit of his gut.

Half an hour later, his calendar alert goes off. He checks his phone, not surprised to see that all of his events have been deleted, replaced by one nine a.m. appointment in Agent Rogers’ office, and a five p.m. press conference titled _ANNOUNCEMENT_ that doesn’t have any information attached.

Bucky figures now would be a good time to pack so he can save the embarrassment of security guards watching him do it, but he realizes he doesn’t own anything except the clothes he wore on his first day.

Reluctantly, he gets out of bed, showers, and dresses in his tattered old jeans and t-shirt.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers from inside fort* I couldn't wait a whole seven days to post. I'm so weak.

Steve doesn’t look up when Bucky enters his office at exactly nine a.m.

“Please, have a seat, Sergeant,” he says, nodding to the chair in front of his desk.

“No thanks,” Bucky replies, “I don’t imagine this’ll take long.”

Steve meets his gaze, and even though he’s completely collected and hard-faced, all Bucky can see is the teary-eyed artist from the night before. He wills away the thought. That’ll just make this harder than it has to be.

“It’s not what you think,” Steve says, and, adds with an ounce more sincerity, “Please. Have a seat.”

Bucky figured he would have gone straight for the direct order, which there would be no reason to obey. But Steve gave him a choice, so Bucky takes a seat, splayed out and petulant like a high schooler in the principal’s office. He could probably stand to handle this with more grace, but he can't manage to garner up the will to do so.

“Listen,” Steve begins, “there’s no easy way to say this...” He looks at a blank spot on his desk instead of Bucky.

Bucky holds his breath. He can’t feel anything.

“Starting tomorrow, your new Lead will be Agent Hill. She’s strict, but she’s good. It’s going to be a bit more legwork because she’s out in the field. You’ll go with her. Because of that, this is considered a promotion.” When Bucky doesn’t reply, Steve slides a manilla folder across the desk and adds, “The details are in the file for you to look over and sign.”

Bucky would rather jump on an IED again. He wishes he could be professional about this, like Steve is, just take the news, sign the paperwork, and walk away. Instead—fuck it, he needs to know—he asks, “Is this because of…” The ill-timed love confession. The idol complex. Fuck, maybe it was last week’s failure of a tuna casserole.

“No,” Steve says, blunt, but Bucky can’t read between the lines of a single word. He finally looks at Bucky again instead of talking to his desk, but his eyes are as level and empty as his voice. “I’m leaving SHIELD. I haven’t told anyone yet.” He hesitates in consideration of the right words, and continues carefully, “I spoke with Stark. Privately. We agreed that if I came to work for him, he would call off the merger.”

“Why would he do that?” Bucky asks. What he wouldn’t give to be as calm about this. He lets himself imagine smashing Steve’s desk and screaming, but he closes his hand into a fist instead, feeling the ripple of the metal plates up his arm.

“It’s a merger,” Steve replies, “not an acquisition. SHIELD wouldn’t be a subsidiary of Stark Industries, but a partner organization. Stark and Pierce would gain dual control of both organizations, effectively becoming more powerful than any single government.” Steve looks at him like Bucky should give a shit about that, or react in some way. He doesn’t.

Steve continues, “But if I left and joined Stark’s team, Stark would, for all intents and purposes, own the Captain America brand to do with what he will, no need to collaborate with Pierce. No risk of the liability involved in partnering with a mistrusted, amoral, bureaucratic organization. Just a single asset gain.” He speaks like he does in conference rooms, his clipped professional voice as bland and soulless as his phone’s OS.

With the clarification comes an ounce of hope that bubbles to the surface. “Okay, no problem,” Bucky says, nodding. The solution is obvious. “I’ll just go with you. You’ll need an assistant or sidekick or whatever wherever you go, right? I’ll just slip out of my contract here and if Stark doesn’t hire me, I’ll get a job somewhere else. Flipping burgers, juggling on the street, I don’t care.”

Steve’s composure begins to break at the seams, jaw clenched, lips pursed in a thin line. Exhaustion emanates from him in waves. Without looking a day over thirty, Bucky can see every year of his long life etched in his expression. “They’ll take your prosthetic if you quit. It was part of the deal.”

“Let them.” Bucky tries to keep the emotion out of his words, but they creep in anyway, tendrils of desperation snaking out of him. “It’s just an arm. I’ve lost it once, I can lose it again.”

“I won’t let you do that,” Steve says, this time with more resolve. “You’ll get along with Maria, you’ll finish out your remaining four months, and I’m leaving you a letter of recommendation so that at the end of your term, you’ll be considered for a training program to become an agent.” He stands, like the meeting is over, no more discussion to be had. “You’re a good worker and a good man, Sergeant Barnes. SHIELD would be lucky to have you as a long-term employee.” Steve nods. Bucky is dismissed.

A lump rises in Bucky’s throat. He won’t cry here. Not now. Not because of this. “You can’t just leave SHIELD,” he argues, racing through his encyclopedic knowledge of SHIELD’s policies and procedures. In a big binder from his first day, he remembers reading something about a trade secret policy, applicable after the employee reaches level seven. “It’s like the Supreme Court. You’re signed on for life.”

Steve pauses, stunned. “You weren’t supposed to know that.”

Bucky stands, gripping the desk so hard that he leaves notches in the maple. “Why? What happens when you quit?”

Steve swallows, thick. His voice is barely audible as he replies, “There’s another option in the fine print for high-risk employees. It’s a procedure—”

“No,” Bucky says, but the word wavers.

“—they can wipe everything I know about SHIELD—”

“This can’t be happening.” Bucky shakes his head back and forth.

“—all of its assets and trade secrets—”

“Please, no.” He sounds desperate. He is. This can’t be happening.

“—and you too.” Steve looks down at his hands and says, “When I leave, I won’t know you anymore.”

“Steve...” Bucky pleads. He’s broken. This broke him.

Steve’s face hardens again. He takes a deep breath and replies, “That’s Agent Rogers, Sergeant. Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

“It’s not worth it!” He hits his fist against Steve’s desk. The wood cracks. “Just let the merger happen. You don’t have to be the hero. You don’t have to be the one to solve this.” His face is wet. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about anything anymore.

Steve meets his glare, face contorting in newfound fury, and bites out, “‘What’s the difference.’”

Bucky reels back, searching Steve’s face. “What?”

“You asked me once what the difference was between Captain America and Steve Rogers. And you’re right, when it comes down to it, there is none. This merger can’t happen without putting the world at risk of the hands of Alexander Pierce and Tony Stark. I gave my life once to take power away from one misguided man. I’ll do it again if I have to. A few memories are a small price to pay to keep the power in the hands of many rather than a few.”

It might be the most Bucky has ever heard him say in person. He’d heard these kinds of speeches growing up, heard the tinny recordings of Captain America in Basic, telling him to fight the good fight. They were inspiring then, but up close they’re debilitating.

Bucky is speechless. His metal arm hangs heavy at his side. His jaw is loose and he blinks at Steve helplessly.

So he says the only thought moving around in his sad, shattered brain, a whisper of disbelief: “But I love you.”

Steve picks up the folder and holds it out to Bucky. It trembles in his hand. Bucky’s only solace is the strain in Steve’s voice as he says, “Here are your new orders, Sergeant. It’s been a pleasure working with you.”

Bucky tears it from his grip and storms out of the office.

***

_B: You knew_

_N: I guessed._

_B: How?_

_N: Agent Rogers had me organize tonight’s press conference. There were whispers. He grew distant._

_B: Why didnt he have me organize the conf? Why didnt I hear the whispers? Why couldnt I put it together?_

_N: I don’t know, James. I’m sorry._

Bucky reads the text as he enters the apartment. He throws his phone against the wall. It’s okay, it’s not his anyway. They won’t fire him; they promoted him. He toes off his shoes out of habit, takes a deep breath, collects himself. He opens the manilla folder in his hand out of blind curiosity and falls onto the couch.

Paperclipped to the front is a picture of a stern, unsmiling woman with sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes. She’s beautiful in the same way Natasha is—deadly and intimidating. But Natasha is a fucking goofball once her stony professionalism fades. Hill’s face is so smooth and pristine, Bucky isn’t sure she’s ever had a facial expression in her life.

The first stack of papers are familiar: hand-filled forms of Bucky’s monthly coaching sessions with Steve. They always took five minutes or less, usually while Bucky was busy cooking, and Steve would ask him, “How is everything going?” and Bucky would say, “Great,” and Steve would say, “Do you have anything to discuss with me?” and Bucky would always bite back _it’d be great if you fucked me stupid, sir, I really think that would motivate my performance_ , but instead said, “Nope. What dressing do you want for your salad?” Steve would make a face at having to eat salad and that was that.

The next stack of papers are a freshly-printed, abridged contract to switch assignments to Hill. Bucky ignores it, and gets to the next page, a handwritten letter on yellow legal paper.

> _Commander Fury:_
> 
> _I would like to provide you my highest recommendation for Sergeant James Barnes into the SHIELD Special Ops Cadet Program. Over the past eight months, Sgt. Barnes has provided me top-tier Support. He has re-adjusted to civilian life with exemplary speed, learns quickly and adapts well to new environments, and exhibits the talent, drive, and skill necessary for great leadership._
> 
> _I believe this potential should be cultivated by the expert hands of Agent Hill, who will be able to provide him a more solid foundation for his training and future with SHIELD. Barnes would be an asset in the field, both for his quick thinking, strategic insight, and physical strength and agility. He is unerringly personable as well as a team player, a perfect fit for the program. It is my opinion that he should be tapped for future executive leadership within SHIELD._
> 
> _Enclosed you will find an application for the program as well as a contract for Sgt. Barnes to hereby support Agent Hill at the date of execution. Please let me know if you require any additional information that might better aid in your decision. Thank you for your time and consideration._
> 
> _Regards,_
> 
> _Capt. Steven G. Rogers_
> 
> _Senior Agent, Executive Operations_
> 
> _SHIELD_

The remaining pages include the form Steve mentioned and a print-out confirmation that Bucky will have access to Hill’s apartment starting tomorrow. The final page is Bucky’s tattered application to SHIELD. He’d never made a resume, so they gave him an form to fill out instead; so old, the date box read “19__”. His scrawled handwriting trembled from all the pain meds he’d been on. Under “sex” he’d written “yes” because he’d been so out of his mind, but joke’s on him, it turned out to be pretty damn relevant.

It feels like someone else’s life. So much has changed in so little time.

He closes the file and tosses it on the coffee table, then gets up to retrieve his phone where it lay in the hallway. It’s fine—industrial grade, probably chosen by Natasha specifically because of his cyborg arm. He pockets it, finding himself in front of Steve’s closed bedroom door. Bucky has never seen inside it, not even a glance. It’s always pitch black when Steve enters it, and he never leaves it open. It’s the only room that Bucky hasn’t scrubbed clean a thousand times.

He wants to tear the place apart, find all Steve’s drawings of him and shred them. He doesn’t even know what Steve does with them, if he keeps them, if he paints over the canvas ones or burns them or files them in a portfolio.

 _Under no circumstance are you to enter this area unless given express permission_ , Natasha had told him on his first day, all those months ago. _To do so will violate the terms of the contract and you will be reassigned elsewhere._

But Bucky has already been reassigned. The damage is done.

He glares down at the contraption on the doorknob. Then he wiggles the stainless steel handle to test it—firmly locked. Deadbolted. Secured by a thumbprint scanner.

It occurs to him, then, that he’s never actually tested the strength of his metal arm. He’s barely even let himself think of it. He works so hard to convince himself it’s just a normal arm, always keeping it restrained, balanced, matching the other. But now he takes his shiny metal hand, grips the handle and the scanner, and crushes it in his grip. It crumbles like an empty beer can. When he yanks it out of the door, the wood splinters.

He lifts the handle in front of his face and inspects it, puts it in his other hand. It’s heavier there.

“This is the shit that makes supervillains,” he mutters to himself before tossing it to the floor. He shoves the door and it falls open. His head might be full of some crazy shit, but it’d take some hardcore brainwashing to make him go darkside. He’s beside himself with anguish, and the worst he can manage is mild property damage and a violation of privacy.

He flicks on a light and looks around. Steve’s bedroom is—

_Jesus._

Bucky expected more of the same, kind of like his bedroom: gray, tidy, boring. Instead, Steve’s room is comprised of a solitary mattress in the corner with an ancient quilt on it, unmade, a nest of pillows strewn around it. A crate sits next to it with a solitary lamp and a couple books and newspapers inside.

But what really gets Bucky’s attention, what makes his jaw fall open and pulls the breath right out of his lungs is every inch of wallspace covered in art—canvases, paper, newspaper; drawings, paintings, illustrations. The worst part is that most of them are of Bucky, the drawings from all their Sundays together—Bucky naked, clothed, laughing, staring off into space, abstract, realistic, charcoal, pastels, colored pencil, oil paints. Bucky standing in Steve’s bedroom is like entering some kind of fucked-up funhouse of mirrors whose reflections are all more attractive, artistic versions of himself.

He drops onto the mattress, exhausted from lack of sleep, drags the quilt over himself. It smells like Steve, like stepping into an antique store, coupled with a crisp cleanness. All that’s missing is the warm softness of his skin. Bucky wonders what Steve will do with the drawings before he gets his mind wiped, whether he’ll burn them or keep them and let the feeling of used-to-know drive him mad.

It doesn’t matter. Steve’s reaction to Bucky breaking into his room doesn’t matter, either. He won’t remember soon anyway. He won’t remember any of it.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *paper airplane flies out of fort* *note on airplane reads, _Remember that I love you._ *

It’s dark by the time Steve gets home. Bucky stares off into space in Steve’s bedroom, a pillow clutched to his chest in his curled-up form. He listens as Steve does all his usual just-got-home tasks: hangs his jacket on the peg by the door for Bucky to send with the dry cleaning; kneels down to untie his shoelaces, then toes them off to put in their respective shoe-cubbies; loosens his tie and rolls his sleeves up. Bucky can even tell the second of silence where Steve runs a hand through his hair and looks around. He does it every time he steps through the door, like he’s always surprised to find himself in the future instead of a run-down tenement in 1942.

The hallway light turns on and casts a glow into the dark bedroom. It’s quickly hindered by Steve’s shadow as he steps in front of the broken, open door.

“Buck,” he says. It comes out exasperated, disappointed.

Bucky doesn’t care.

Steve enters the room, then sits cross-legged beside the mattress, in front of Bucky—all worn-down, hunched-shouldered six feet of him. Bucky can see half of his face from the garish hallway light, shadows hanging below his weary eyes.

“You broke into my room,” he says, neither an accusation nor a meaningless observation.

“You love me,” Bucky replies, neither an accusation nor a meaningless observation.

Steve looks around at all the drawings of Bucky tacked up on the walls. “You wouldn’t have known if you obeyed the rules.”

“What’s the fun in that.” Bucky’s voice is flat, muffled mostly by the pillow.

“You could have lived your whole life thinking I was some asshole old boss, a sad has-been you had a crush on when you were younger.” He sighs and runs a hand over his face. When Bucky doesn’t reply, he adds, “I never meant for you to figure it out. I wanted to make this easy for you.”

“Nothing about this is easy.”

Silence stretches between them, agonizing seconds ticking down to nothingness.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve says. “With Natasha, everything was so casual. Then when you showed up, I thought it would be the same. I thought you could just be my employee, that we could keep it professional. But you—” Steve cuts himself off.

Bucky sits up, looks him right in the eye. “I what?”

“You were too damn good, alright? Too good for this meaningless war that you should have never fought in, and too good for this job. You’re everything Captain America stands for and everything I’d lost sight of.” He swallows hard, lips pursed thin. He takes a steadying breath before continuing. “When we met, you reminded me why I got into this damn thing in the first place. And with this merger...nothing was working to dissolve it, and I thought to myself, ‘What would Bucky do?’” He gestures to Bucky’s arm. “You have the scars to prove what you would do. You’d put yourself in the line of fire and you wouldn’t look back. So that’s what I’m doing. Wars aren’t won by buying bonds or socking Hitler in the jaw anymore. They’re won in back offices by signing legal documentation, power exchanges handed over by men who invite you to play golf after. There’s no honor anymore.” He looks at Bucky finally, determined. “But there’s an opportunity here to do the right thing, so I have to take it.”

Bucky repeats himself, because doesn’t have anything else left in him. “But I love you.”

Steve’s face falls, etched with hurt. “I thought you only loved an idea of me, the same as everybody else. I just...it never occurred to me that a guy like you could ever love somebody like me. In my head I’m still that scrawny Brooklyn kid nobody noticed.” Steve looks down at his hands, clasped in his lap, and adds quietly, “I’m just sorry I realized it too late.”

“It’s not too late. You don’t have to do this. We can just leave.”

“And go where? With what money? My face is plastered all over magazines and the internet and history textbooks. There’s a reason I never leave the Tower.”

Bucky swallows down the lump in his throat, along with all the other words he wants to scream at Steve for what an idiot he’s being. But starting an argument will just push him away. He’s trapped. “When’s the procedure?” He hears himself say, but he doesn’t want to know the answer.

“Two hours. After the press conference.”

More silence, a gaping abyss Bucky is totally lost in. Everything he can think to do will just make this worse. So he does nothing.

“Buck?” Steve asks. “Can I…” He pauses, thumbing over the smear of ink that’s always on the side of his middle finger from the fancy pens he insists on using. “No, nevermind. I couldn’t do that to you.”

“Tell me,” Bucky says.

“I want to be selfish. Just once,” he mutters, looking at Bucky once more, eyes flicking down to his lips. “I just want to know.” He moves closer, reaches up and thumbs over Bucky’s chin, hovering an inch away from his mouth.

“Be selfish,” Bucky whispers, and presses their lips together.

Bucky has imagined this moment so many times that he can’t tell the difference between his fantasy and reality. Steve’s mouth is everything he’s always wanted it to be, always thought it would be since he was a kid daydreaming about Captain America whisking him away.

Steve parts Bucky’s lips with his tongue. Bucky meets all his movements, hand clutching his tie to pull him closer. His heart might beat its way right out of his chest. Steve kisses him with reservation, gentle slowness, his hands on either side of Bucky’s face, proper and sweet like he’s dropping Bucky off after a highschool dance.

Bucky breaks away to take a breath and rests their foreheads together. One last ditch effort: “Please don’t do this.”

“I have to.”

“I love you,” Bucky tells him again. “I’ll tell you however many times it takes to bury its way into your stupid brain. So you remember it. Even if you don’t remember anything else, you’ll know I love you.”

Steve’s voice cracks. “I won’t.”

Bucky crawls onto Steve’s lap, legs bracketing his thighs, and lifts his face so that their eyes are locked. “You will.”

Steve’s chin trembles, eyes glassing over, red-rimmed. “I won’t.”

“I love you.” Bucky kisses him.

“Please,” Steve begs against his mouth. “Don’t do this. Don’t—”

“I love you.” Bucky interrupts, and kisses him again.

“I’m sorry.” Steve lets out a single broken sob, hands gripping the back of Bucky’s shirt.

Bucky won’t stop kissing every inch of him, every tear that falls. “Say it.”

“I can’t.” Steve shakes his head. Tears stream down his face.

“I need to hear you say it. Just so I know this was real.”

Steve clutches at Bucky, fingertips digging into his hips. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and says, “I’m in love with you, Buck. I have been for a long time.”

Bucky grips his hair, lifts his chin up and kisses him again, deep and sorrowful and full of all the things they’ll never get the chance to say to one another. “I love you,” he murmurs against Steve’s lips. Over and over again. Steve holds on like he’s dying, because he is, in a way. For a second time.

Bucky wishes that Steve was wrong, that this isn’t exactly what Bucky would do if he were worth as much as Captain America. He’s no hero, no one worth looking up to like Steve is currently, literally looking at him, the way he’s been looking at him this whole damn time, but Bucky has been too star-struck to notice, to see Steve as a real person and not just a cardboard cut-out of his idol. This is all his fucking fault.

Steve breaks away. “The press conference…”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. He wipes his face with the flat of his hand.

“You don’t have to go. I just have to formally resign from SHIELD. The procedure happens right after. You.." He takes in a shuddering breath. "You won’t see me again.”

“I will,” Bucky replies. “Even if you don’t know me, I’ll find you. We’ll fall in love all over again.”

Steve shakes his head. “Please don’t. Just...take the promotion and run with it. You’ll do great things here. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“It’s all worthless without you.”

“You’ll feel differently. Later. When you get settled. You’ll forget all about me.”

Bitterness floods Bucky’s tongue. “But not in the same way you’ll forget me, right?”

Steve’s face hardens. “Don’t turn this ugly, Buck. I have to go.” He maneuvers Bucky off of him and stands up, pauses to compose himself, and leaves the room.

Bucky follows him. “You don’t. You can stay. Please stay.”

“No,” Steve says, stern. “This is best. For both of us. For the world.” He makes his way to the door, puts on his shoes, his jacket, straightens his tie.

“Didn’t they teach you in hero school that you don’t get to decide what’s best for anybody?” Bucky asks.

Steve looks at Bucky, ignoring him, then reaches up, thumbs over Bucky’s cheek. He leans in and kisses Bucky one last time. “I’m sorry.”

Then he just...leaves.

***

Bucky finds himself curled up in front of the door like a dog, staring out the yellow strip underneath where the sterile hallway is lit. His eyes sting, the tears from one eye falling into the other before sliding off his face.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. He ignores it. It vibrates again. And again.

He sighs and decides to check it.

_N: Where are you?_

_0000000000: Is this James Barnes?_

_N: You can’t skip out on this, James._

_N: Rogers may have said you could, but he needs you right now._

_N: I need you right now._

Bucky replies to the blank number.

_B: Whos asking_

_B: And howd you get 0s for your number_

_0: Someone who has information you need. Is this James Barnes or not?_

_B: It is_

_0: And you’re Steve Rogers’ asst?_

_B: For another hour yeah_

_0: Ok well you need to do whatever you can to stop the procedure from happening._

_B: Let me tell you I did everything I could hes dead set on it_

_0: Well he's about to just be dead. Metaphorically speaking. This isn't some simple Sunshine of a Spotless Mind memory altering, easy peasy outpatient procedure. It’s invasive and destructive. He’s not going to be himself anymore. He’ll be a walking, talking puppet. A literal asset. The process is nothing more than a lobotomy._

This doesn't make sense. It can't be legal. Then again, SHIELD could buy over or manipulate any jury. They're bigger than the law. That's why this is happening in the first place.

_B: Why_

_0: I imagine the basic thought process goes something like: if SHIELD can’t have him, no one can, but it would be bad PR to kill him._

_B: How do you know this_

_B: Who are you_

_0: I'm that bad feeling in your gut. You have to stop it._

Bucky’s heart pounds in his throat.

_B: How_

_0: According to your file, you’ve got an impressive background and an even more impressive arm. Use it. Brute force. Do what you gotta do._

Bucky rushes out of the apartment, not even bothering to put on shoes.

When he makes it to the press room, journalists and SHIELD agents alike fill the room corner to corner. He slips in the door and presses himself against the back wall, straining to look over the heads of others. Peggy is seated near the front, barely keeping it together, Angie’s arm around her.

A stern, thin woman with brown hair and a bluetooth in her ear is stationed against the side wall. Bucky recognizes her as Agent Hill, his new boss, the woman from the picture in his folder.

Natasha sidles up next to Bucky, presses their shoulders together. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“Where’s Steve?”

“Backstage,” she says, arms crossed over her chest. She’s wearing a smart black dress, like a funeral. Because it kind of is. “Where are your shoes? Your uniform?”

“I need to talk to him.”

“It’s too late. He—”

“No, hold on,” He’s too anxious to speak coherently so he pulls his phone out and shows her the convo between himself and the zero number.

“Who is this?” she asks.

“I don’t know. I thought you would.”

Before she can answer, she’s cut off by Fury, who steps up to the podium and says, “Good evening, everyone.” Reporters immediately rise from their chairs, shouting questions that can’t be heard individually because everyone is talking at once. Fury holds up a hand and continues, “I’m going to get right to the point. It is with great regret that I officially announce the resignation of Senior Agent Steve Rogers from SHIELD.”

The reporters lift their hands and beg for attention to answer their questions, especially now that their suspicions have been confirmed.

“If you could please hold off,” Fury says above the fray, “Agent Rogers has a few words, and then he’ll address your questions.”

Steve goes on stage, cleaned up from where he’d been kissing and crying on Bucky. He’s wearing his blue suit, Bucky’s favorite, the one that highlights his eyes. He shakes Fury’s hand and smiles, tight-lipped.

He gets to the podium, and Bucky jerks forward to run to the stage and grab him, but Natasha grips him by the arm. “Not out in the open like this,” she tells him. “We don’t know who’s on what side right now, and we don’t know what anyone is capable of.”

Steve addresses the audience once the noise dies down. “As Commander Fury mentioned, I’m resigning from SHIELD as of this evening. As many of you know, a merger between Stark Industries and SHIELD has been in the negotiation stage for several months now.” The reporters are insatiable, but Steve speaks over them. “I am adamantly opposed to this merger. Seventy years ago, I fought in a war to keep power out of one misguided man’s hands. Today, I have to fight the same battle in a different way. This has nothing to do with Alexander Pierce or SHIELD, nor Mr. Stark and his company. This has to do with the notion of power as a damaging force, a burden that must be held and maintained by many to keep peace. That said, Tony Stark has agreed to call off the merger with the condition that I take the Captain America brand to Stark Industries. This means, of course, that I’ll be joining the Stark team as well.”

The reporters go wild. Bucky thinks he might be sick.

Steve points to a reporter in the front. He stands and asks, “There have been rumors that SHIELD’s policy on resignation includes memory alteration to protect its secrets. Can you confirm this?”

Steve replies, “Sounds like science fiction to me.” He gets a few flat laughs and points to the next reporter.

A woman stands and asks, “So if you’ll be taking SHIELD’s trade secrets with you to Stark Industries, how is that more secure than a merger?”

Without hesitation, Steve replies, “If you can’t trust Captain America, who can you trust?”

“Will this transition come with a raise?” another reporter asks.

“Yes,” Steve replies. Murmurs roll through the crowd. Bucky can see it now—headlines that read, “CAPTAIN AMERICA BETRAYS COUNTRY FOR HIGHER PAY.”

A third reporter asks, “Given Mr. Stark’s affiliation with Iron Man, does this mean you’ll be picking up the shield again and teaming together?”

“The world doesn’t need heroes like me anymore,” Steve replies. His face is blank, but Bucky can see the flicker of hurt behind his eyes.

That's it. He has to act. He can't stand idly by anymore.

“Bullshit!” Bucky shouts above the fervor of the crowd.

“Bucky,” Natasha says in warning behind him. She’s never used his nickname before, and that alone should make him hesitate, but he’s sick of this shit and he’s going to shut it the hell down. Now.

Steve’s eyes dart to the back of the room. “Excuse me?”

“We’ll always need heroes like you,” Bucky adds.

“Sergeant Barnes, now is not the time for this conversation,” Steve tells him.

“When will be? When they drag you off the stage to do who-knows-what to you?” Bucky makes his way through the crowd and steps on stage. He addresses the reporters. “Do you people have any idea what this man is sacrificing for you? What he has sacrificed for you? The memory alteration is real by the way, and it’s going to turn him into a vegetable. But that doesn't matter as long as he keeps smiling for the cameras, right? He’s given his life for you once, and he’s about to do it again, and all you care about is whether or not he’s going to keep fighting for you. The answer is no. He’s not. He fucking quits.”

“Bucky,” Steve hisses through his teeth, hand over the microphone.

Bucky is nearly blinded by all the cameras flashing at him. He tries to blink them away, but every time he closes his eyes, he opens them again to gunfire and flash bombs in the blood-filled desert of his nightmares.

“Can you please give us your name? Your affiliation with Agent Rogers?” people ask. More questions arise. “Is your relationship with Agent Rogers romantic in nature?” Yet more still, allusions to Bucky being some kind of vigilante crimefighter, asking what his rank is, where he came from, what happened to his arm, why he isn’t wearing any shoes.

But all of it fades away, replaced by the smell of gunpowder, the dull patter of machine guns. Blood. So much blood. He feels a steadying hand on his arm, but it’s dragging him away, and he takes a blind swing. His metal hand meets a jaw, and he blinks his eyes open to see Steve falling away from him.

“Steve!” he yells, but more hands are on him. Stronger hands. One of them has some kind of device that buzzes, and he has just enough time to register the sound before an electric current rips up his body, short-circuiting his arm. He can’t move it anymore, can't feel it. It's dead weight hanging on his shoulder.

“C’mon, Barnes,” the guy says with a thick rumble of an accent, the one from the conference room who looked at him like he was a piece of meat. Rumlow, he remembers. “We got plans for you.”

Steve is similarly carted away by more faceless goons on opposite side of the stage, unconscious. Bucky looks around the room for Natasha, but she’s gone too. The lights won’t stop flashing, people won’t stop shouting. Bucky can’t get his footing, can’t find reality again amid the rapid-fire flashbacks. Once he’s dragged into the hallway, the butt of a gun cracks him across the head. He blacks out.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is late. I got really sick this week and wasn't able to post. Next week will be on time.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me this far. I hope you stay tuned for OUR THRILLING CONCLUSION! (Because chapter 21 is an epilogue)

Bucky comes to when Rumlow throws him into a closet.

“Where’s Steve?” Bucky mumbles, struggling against the black edges of his vision. His head lolls back onto the dirty cement floor. Blood floods his mouth; must have taken a hit. Every other time he blinks, he opens his eyes to find himself back in the desert. He can’t tell if the gunfire he hears in the distance is real or in his head. He spits the blood out of his mouth and stares up at Rumlow from the floor. He still can’t move his arm, and his other is tied behind his back to the limp metal plates that serve as his other wrist.

“Your buddy’s gonna pay for leaving,” Rumlow says behind a lascivious smile. “I can see the headlines now: ‘Iron Man brainwashes Captain America. Stark versus SHIELD.’ Gonna be a war, and it’ll be all your boyfriend’s fault.” He laughs as he slams the door closed. Bucky is plunged in total darkness.

If he could lift his hand in front of his face, he wouldn’t be able to see it. His heart is in his throat. They’re going to mutilate Steve, and Bucky is trapped, mid-flashback, and disabled.

Okay, okay, he reasons, he’s gotten himself out of worse situations. Of course, in those situations, he had guns. And a tank. And medics. And a sound mind. Right now he doesn’t even have shoes.

He takes a deep breath, practices all the mumbo-jumbo his therapists taught him. He won’t be able to do a damn thing if he can’t even find the ground under his feet, both metaphorically and literally. The memory flashes start to fade, going from reality to a movie and then to a string of pictures—two girls on their way their way to school laughing with each other; Bucky on patrol; an IED rolled in front of them; the girls shoved aside, screaming; then blood and sand and pain, life counted down in pulse beats. It all slips away until all Bucky can feel is the cold, solid foundation underneath him.

Based on the sharp sting when he twists his flesh arm, he figures a single zip-tie is binding his arms together. The only way to break it involves two hands over his knee, which he can’t do because his arms are behind his back and one of them isn’t hooked up to his brain.

But, in theory, he doesn’t have a shoulder joint so, in theory, he can pop his non-shoulder joint out of its non-shoulder socket. Like a Lego, sort of. He tries it; a sick metal-against-metal scraping sound reverberates through his body, but he’s left with enough leeway to pull his arms underneath his legs and in front of him. He stands up, wobbling, lifts a knee, then crashes his wrists down against it. The zip-tie breaks open.  

He forces his flesh arm to stop trembling long enough to run up and down his metal arm. He’s barely given it a thought since he got it, but now it hits him how fucking weird it is to be touching his own arm and not feel it, cold metal plates running under his hand. It hangs so heavy on him that it strains his neck. He pushes the joint back in its socket, which is unnervingly easy. He locates a small—feels like a magnet? That’s not supposed to be there, right? Fuck, he should have paid more attention to the physical therapist.

He grits his teeth and pulls. It makes a grinding sound as he wrenches it off himself, a couple sparks flying as he does it. The plates ripple downward as the arm reboots, and he goes full-on phantom limb lock. It’s worse than a charlie horse, breath trapped in his chest as he waits, biting the inside of his cheek to keep the pain at bay, leaning against the door.

He tries to move his metal fingers. A sharp pain shoots through his skull—at least one way of the two way street is working, albeit not correctly. He takes another breath and tries again. His pinky finger moves; a minute later, his ring finger; a minute after that, his middle and index and thumb. He makes a fist.

Now that his eyes are adjusted to the darkness, he looks around and reminds himself he’s in a closet in the SHIELD Tower, located in Washington DC, probably a sub basement. It’s November. He’s not dead, he didn’t die last year, and this isn’t a dream. He can do this.

He feels around the wall in front of him until he locates a knob. He twists it until it breaks off, but the latch is still stuck, so he punches a hole through the door instead and butts his arm into it. It falls open.

Alright, a hallway, like the one outside the apartment—plain, sterile, predictable. There are no numbers on the walls to indicate what floor he’s on. There are pipes in the ceiling, though. The fluorescent lights flicker above him. He needs a phone; he feels around in his jeans pockets, but they’re empty. He’s not a hero, he can’t find Steve and take on whatever goons are guarding him alone—assuming he hasn’t gotten out of the jam by himself by now, which is entirely possible.

Bucky adamantly ignores the alternate possibility.

The building is a square. Every floor, even the basement ones, are laid out the same way. He memorized it in a fit of anxiety about being able to escape if he had to. There are four hallways that circumference a middle area: offices, apartments, archive rooms, armories, the gym; it’s different on every floor.

He turns left, knowing he can just make his way back around. The Tower was built in the middle of the Cold War, so every floor is not only an effective bomb shelter, but has an emergency phone connected to an underground powerline. Thank god he read all the manuals he was given.

He just has to find the phone and call Natasha. She’s smarter than him, she’ll know what to do.

He finds the phone down the next hallway. It’s behind a locked glass door, like a fire extinguisher. He punches through the glass and picks up the receiver. Jesus, it’s a fucking rotary phone. It takes him three tries to figure out how to use it. He dials Natasha’s number and she picks up on the first ring.

“Romanoff.” Loud noise crackles in the background, voices shouting, phones ringing off the hook.

“It’s me.”

She hesitates. “Rollins. Do you have an update on the prisoner?”

“What, no it’s—”

“I asked, do you have an update on the prisoner?”

“Oh,” Bucky says, “I get it. God this is so fucked, Nat.”

“Yes.”

“Where’s Steve? How do I get to him?”

“The prisoner has been successfully detained?” She pauses as if Bucky answered. “Right. Floor S3. I’ll meet you there in five. Thank you for the update.” Then she hangs up.

Shit. Well at least he has a floor now, even if he’s still bereft any kind of weapon except for his arm. And maybe Natasha now, too.

He pads down the hallway and hears heavy footsteps around a corner—just one set, so instead of hiding, he rushes toward the sound and turns a corner. The guard is a bigger guy, obviously human, just doing his rounds, and Bucky feels really bad about clotheslining him before he can even reach the gun at his hip. But not too bad, because the guard goes down like a sack of wet sand and doesn’t get back up.

Bucky reaches the staircase and runs up the first flight. The second flight doesn’t have a floor label either, which means he must be in the dark underbelly of SHIELD, some kind of sub-sub basement used for folding chair storage. After the fourth floor, he gets to level S10, then races up the remaining seven floors to S3.

He holds himself back from rushing through the door and instead puts his ear against it. He can’t hear anything, of course. That would be too easy. He opens the door and looks out. The hallway is exactly like sub-sub basement eighty-seven or wherever he just was. He can’t believe that if he’d just been in his uniform for once, he’d be totally inconspicuous here, but the fact that he’s wearing jeans with more holes than fabric and a t-shirt he’s had since he was thirteen, plus a gleaming Stark Industries metal arm, makes him a literal walking target.

He hears voices coming toward him, followed by footsteps—two sets of boots, one set of heels. He ducks in a doorway, which doesn’t provide much cover, but he doesn’t think he could take three potentially-armed agents.

They turn the corner and walk right past him. A flash of red hair confirms Bucky’s suspicions and he feels an ounce of relief.

Natasha stops and backtracks, looks at Bucky with cold eyes. Her two goons follow her lead. She’s wearing exactly what she was at the press conference, with the addition of a shoulder holster complete with two pistols. She pulls one out and draws it on Bucky.

“Hands behind your head, Barnes,” she says. Fuck, Bucky can’t get a read on her at all. She has to be on his side—has to. He knows her. He loves her. Then again, he learned the real worth of his love earlier today, so it doesn’t mean much.

“Nat?” he asks. “What are you—”

Bucky could feasibly disarm her, but the two big goons in SWAT gear would gun him down before he had a chance. She gestures the goons toward him and adds, “He’s a threat to the operation. Restrain him.”

The big, faceless guys on either side of Natasha approach him and Natasha steps back. Bucky struggles in their hold, but then he hears a loud thunk, and one of them goes down, replaced in his sight by Natasha looking down at his unconscious form, gun backwards in her hand from where she’d pistol-whipped him.

The second guy turns on her, but Bucky uses his hesitation and clocks him across the jaw.

Natasha breathes a sigh of relief. “Two down,” she says, smiling at Bucky in that warm, welcoming way that looks trained instead of natural, like she has to use rote memorization to reassure people after she’s done something scary as fuck. “About a million more to go.”

“Just so we’re clear,” Bucky replies, “you’re on my side, right?”

As she takes off her heels and tosses them aside, she says, “Is that even a question?”

They head together toward down the hallway. “I don’t know, I couldn’t tell for a second.”

“You’re lucky we’re in a hurry. I’d be more than happy to express my loyalties to you.” She shoots him the look she gives right before she usually jumps him.

“Now is a really bad time for flirting, Nat.”

“What?” She shrugs. “Adrenaline turns me on.”

They get to a set of black double doors, and Bucky says, “This isn’t ominous at all. You have any idea what we’re about to walk into?”

“None,” Natasha tells him. “But floors two through ten are total chaos, so I don’t think there’ll be a lot of manpower down here.”

“Who all’s on our side?”

“Carter, Fury, Hill, and Coulson’s whole team, as far as I can tell.”

“Nobody’s dead, right?”

“Not that kinda fight. Fury’s leaving the bloodshed to us.”

“Great.”

She looks at him, face hardened. “Priority is getting Rogers out alive and unharmed. No holds barred. Agreed?”

In other words: _aim to kill_. Bucky nods. He knows the drill.

Natasha pushes open the door with her foot—which, okay, Bucky would have crashed in for dramatic effect, but he appreciates her subtlety. Gun raised, she walks down another hallway. Bucky has his gun down at his side, walking sideways to keep an eye on the door.

They reach the end of the hallway and find—

“Holy shit,” Bucky whispers.

—a room akin to an amphitheater yanked out of the forties, a half-circle of control panels with lit-up buttons, and in the middle, strapped down on a table is Steve, shirtless, wires attached all over him and two prongs on either side of his head.

Flashes from the SRT invade Bucky’s mind: Steve in an iron lung, Steve healing in hospitals from his various beatings, Steve getting injected with the serum. In all of them, he lacked personhood, voiceless, powerless. It finally hits Bucky now that it’s right in his face—no wonder Steve is bossy in bed. It’s the only place he can trust that he won’t have his agency stripped from him, and moreover, he trusts Bucky to give him that.

Bucky and Natasha stand on a balcony above the proceedings, between folding chairs arranged like a movie theater. Like this is a spectacle, but no one is watching. Maybe before shit hit the fan, Pierce had been planning to perform a public execution of Steve Rogers. The thought makes him sick.

Steve is staring into space. Bucky recognizes the look on his face—complete dissociation from his surroundings, the cold distance that Bucky just now understands in its entirety. The room is empty except for Steve, and Natasha hops over the railing to land gracefully on the ground below. Bucky follows. Steve blinks open his eyes and looks at them, bleary.

“Buck? Nat?”

“Hey, big guy,” Natasha tells him in that surprisingly soothing voice she usually reserves for post-coital pillow-talk.

Bucky can’t help it. He kisses Steve hello—or goodbye—because one or both of them has a very high chance of dying very soon. Steve kisses him back, soft and groggy, like he probably would if they woke up together. God, Bucky hopes they get to wake up together again someday.

He also can’t help asking, “Did you know this would happen?” Accuses him, more accurately.

Steve heaves a heavy sigh and lets his head fall back against the table. “That my employer was going to lobotomize me and my idiot employee would try to rescue me? Of course I did. It’s all part of my master plan.”

Natasha looks between them, dumbfounded. “Are you fucking serious? You’re choosing right now to bicker?”

Bucky ignores her. “I wouldn’t have had to come rescue you if you didn’t willingly put yourself in the line of fire.”

“Look who’s talking,” Steve replies, glancing to Bucky’s arm. “And I wouldn’t have put myself in the line of fire if someone didn’t convince me I was still a hero.”

“I hate you both,” Natasha tells them.

“Don’t put this on me. I tried to talk you out of it.”

“Too little too late, Buck,” Steve says.

“I can’t believe—” Bucky begins, but the clattering of double doors opening interrupts him.

“Barnes, Romanoff. I hope you’ve come to watch the show,” Alexander Pierce says as he enters.

Bucky turns to find Pierce glaring at him, Rumlow and Rollins on either side of him with guns pointed at his head.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *crawls out of fort and shouts* IT'S TIME FOR THE THRILLING CONCLUSION.
> 
> Thanks for staying with me, friends. Next week, the epilogue! You've earned it.

Steve tells Natasha and Bucky, “I chose this for myself; I have to face the consequences. This isn’t your fight.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Bucky replies. His fine motor functionality in his arm isn’t great, but he fumbles with the straps around Steve’s arms regardless. Natasha has two of them undone already.

“That’s an order, Sergeant.” Steve looks at Natasha. “You too, Romanoff. Both of you, get out of here.”

Natasha meets Bucky’s eyes. They give each other a small nod, a blip of a telepathic reminder regarding priority one, and step away from Steve. He’s still mostly strapped to the table.

“Let me guess,” Steve addresses Pierce. “This is the part where you give your villain speech, right?”

“Villain? You read too many comic books, Agent Rogers,” Pierce replies. “I’m just a humble businessman acting in the best interest of his company. I do what it takes to protect my assets.”

“By removing the liabilities.”

“Now,” Natasha says, and Bucky darts toward Rumlow while Natasha rushes Rollins.

“Shoot them,” Pierce orders.

Bucky barely has time to react before Rumlow pulls the trigger. He shifts just enough to cover his head with his metal arm. The bullet hits his shoulder and he can feel the residual shock as circuitry nearly fries his brain. He seizes and falls to the ground. Obviously, it’s time for a flashback, Bucky’s brain decides. One moment, he’s on the cold tile ground of a SHIELD sub basement, the love of his life and his best friend in danger behind him; and the next, he’s on the sand, an essential limb and several of his innards scattered about him, people screaming, ears ringing in the aftermath of the blast. 

“Bucky!” Steve shouts from behind him. It grounds him. Cold tile floor, not warm dirt and blood. The mild electroshocks to his brain aren’t helping. His body continues seizing on the ground. Shit like this is never like it is in the movies—where the hero can grit their teeth and stand back up no matter what. Getting knocked down so many times means standing back up gets harder and harder, because the memories of those times are always dragging behind, like cement shoes. People are so much weaker in reality. All Bucky can feel is regret for putting Steve on such an impossible pedestal to think he wasn’t affected by his past the same way Bucky is. 

Bucky rolls on his back to the sound of more gunfire. Rollins is on the floor a few feet away from Bucky, unconscious and bleeding from a head wound given to him by Natasha. His rifle is on the ground beside him. In the fray of bullets, Natasha managed to attack Rumlow too, and now stands held in his grip, a gun to her head. Her face is eerily vacant, and Bucky pushes down the flood of rage that pulses through him.

A metallic wrenching noise echoes in the chamber, and Bucky glances over to see Steve pulling at his restraints, grimacing as he does it.

“I wouldn’t do that, Agent Rogers,” Pierce tells him. “I’m not fond of unnecessary bloodshed, but I’m taking Romanoff’s affiliation with you as her formal resignation. Does that sound right, Agent Romanoff?”

Natasha curses at him in Russian.

Bucky silently inches across the floor, covered by the panel of controls, and grabs the rifle. He makes it all the way to the stairwell to the rafters and glances back to see Steve watching him, Rumlow’s and Pierce’s back to him.

“All bloodshed is unnecessary,” Steve says.

“After all these years, you’re still playing the hero. You of all people should know that the bigger picture is always painted with blood.”

Bucky makes it upstairs and crouches down behind a railing. He sets the nose of the rifle against it and lines up his shot. Rumlow’s head sits at the center of the crosshairs.

“This Stark merger could have been big for us, Steve,” Pierce continues. “That’s the thing about power. If you trust the leaders who have it, it can be used for good. We could have established world peace over time.”

“That’s not how it works,” Steve replies. “Peace is only created when the powerful step down and the oppressed step up. It’s been fifty years and I’m still fighting for this concept. And I’ll keep fighting for it until the day I die.”

“Which, unfortunately, will be to—”

Bucky pulls the trigger.

The bullet hits Rumlow right above the comm in his ear before he has the chance to shoot Natasha. Natasha grabs his gun while he falls and spins it on Pierce, an impossibly fast red blur of movement.

Steve rips out of his remaining restraints, leaving the table completely destroyed. He vaults over the console and takes Pierce by neck, nearly lifting him off his feet.

“Steve,” Pierce chokes out, scrabbling at Steve’s arm, “we can make this right. You can be—” _Gasp_. “—part of the deal. You, me, Stark.” _Gasp_. “Executives of SHIELD-Stark Corp.”

“You know,” Steve begins through gritted teeth, “I haven’t gotten a chance to tell you to your face yet.” He reels his fist back, “I quit,” and brings it across Pierce’s jaw. 

Pierce falls to the ground, unconscious.

***

Like sex, fighting bad guys involves a certain amount of clean up and aftercare. Natasha calls in Fury, Peggy, and Hill. Rollins is carted away in an ambulance, Rumlow in a body bag, Pierce by the police, and everyone is acutely aware that he has enough money to get himself out of prison sooner rather than later.

“But it’ll give us time to redraft the bylaws and vote him off the Board,” Fury explains as Pierce is carted out, a blossoming bruise on the side of his face. 

When Rumlow’s body is rolled away by the coroner, Bucky thinks he might hurl. Shards of skull and brain paint the back wall, and at this point, Bucky is just in a constant state of flashback, flinching whenever he hears false gunfire. 

While Steve, Fury, Peggy, and Hill are talking, Natasha sidles up next to Bucky and says, “I would have done the same thing.”

Bucky nods, unable to speak. They stand together in silence and watch the proceedings until some police officers call Natasha away for questioning. An officer approaches Bucky too, but Steve intervenes using his domineering Captain America voice—”We can deal with this at a later time,” he says like some kind of Jedi mind trick, and just like that, the officer moves on to Peggy—and puts his arm around Bucky to steady him, then guides him away from the proceedings. Occasionally, as Steve steers him through the building going who-knows-where, Bucky distantly hears reassurance, telling him things like, “You’re not in trouble. You did the right thing,” followed by, “Don’t worry. We have lawyers to get through the red tape.”

The red tape isn’t the problem. The red blood is the problem. Killing a guy who was just doing his job is the problem. Even if that guy was kind of a jackass, it’s not up to Bucky to decide when people die. 

Bucky must say as much aloud, because—they made it to an elevator somehow—Steve takes Bucky’s hand and threads their fingers together. He doesn’t say another word about it.

They end up in a lab that looks vaguely familiar. Steve barely has time to guide Bucky to a stool and say, “I’m sorry, but we had to call—” before a short man with a goatee strides into the room talking faster than Bucky can comprehend.

He hangs up his phone and tosses it on the table, then picks up Bucky’s arm like Bucky isn’t attached to it, like he owns it—

“Sergeant Barnes, Tony Stark. Stark, Barnes,” Steve introduces.

—which, Bucky realizes, he does.

“The hell did you do to this thing?” Tony asks, jamming his thumb into the bullet hole and getting a mild shock as a result. He tries again. When Bucky doesn’t reply, he looks up at Steve, then down his body and back up again. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt? Did I interrupt something?”

“I got shot,” Bucky replies.

“Pierce tried to kill me, sort of,” Steve adds.

Tony looks at Bucky. “Oh good, you got my message.”

“That was you?” Bucky asks.

“Your phone network hasn’t been updated since the Cold War.” Tony rifles through a black backpack he brought and takes out a small toolkit. “It came to blows, I’m guessing. And not the fun kind. Is everyone alive?”

The room falls heavy with silence.

“I’m gonna take that as a no.” Tony looks at Steve, “And that you also won’t be coming to work for me in the near future.”

“I don’t know. I think I need a break.” 

“Fair,” Tony replies, grimacing as he wrenches off the dented plate of Bucky’s arm. “Counter-offer, though,” he bites his tongue between his teeth as he unceremoniously rips out a few wires, “how do you feel about freelancing?”

“How so?” Steve asks.

“You go do whatever you want, and I call you from time to time with...I don’t know, fun stuff that comes up.”

“Fun stuff?”

“You know, battling to save mankind from killer robots, or…” Tony pulls out the bullet and re-clips the wires, “whatever happens to come up on a given Tuesday. Monsters. Aliens. Robot monster aliens. Barnes can come too. And that scary redhead keeping guard at the door. It’ll be fun.”

“Do I have to be Captain America?”

“This is what I’ve been trying to tell you. I don’t give a shit about Captain America or SHIELD. I liked the SHIELD merger because I liked you. I dropped the merger because you gave me the counter-offer I was looking for. Then I found out about this brainwashing business almost too late, but you wouldn’t answer your phone. So I got Attractive Brooding Man here to stop the procedure. I promise you, I never meant for any of this to happen.” Tony tightens some screws in Bucky’s arm and concludes, “What I’m saying is, you can be the fucking tooth fairy for all I care. I just want you on my team.”

“So no office?” Steve asks. “Or paperwork?”

“Nope.” Tony slides a new metal plate back in place. “Just teetering on the brink of death for fun and profit. And saving the world or whatever.”

Steve looks at Bucky, eyebrows raised. Bucky shrugs and says, “Sounds good to me.” 

Tony wipes his oily hands on a rag and holds one out to Steve. “We have a deal, Rogers?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Steve takes his hand. “Deal.”

***

Bucky is still numb by the time they make it back up to the apartment, but at least his arm works. Peggy said they were welcome to stay in the Tower as long as they wanted, but Bucky doesn’t think he’s alone in wanting to get the hell out of there as soon as possible.

He tries to be grateful that Steve and Natasha are alive, but gratitude is difficult when Bucky took someone else’s life away because of it.

When Bucky closes the door behind them, he asks out of habit, “Is there anything I can get for you, sir?”

“What?” Steve asks. “No, Buck. We don’t work here anymore.”

Bucky can hardly fathom that. He doesn’t have a job. Steve isn’t his—

“So what does that mean for…” Bucky trails off.

“Us?”

Bucky nods. Steve falls silent. They stand in the foyer, Steve’s bedroom door still broken open, Steve still shirtless, Bucky still barefoot, both of them dirty and sore and exhausted.

“Things are different now,” Steve states with finality, quiet in the silent apartment. It feels like he’s really saying,  _ We have no reason to be together. _

Bucky lets that thought settle in his poor addled brain, lets it shred through his tattered heart. When he finds his voice again, he says, “They don’t have to be.” He looks at Steve with hopeful eyes, who stares back at him, face as blank and unreadable as Bucky’s first day on the job.

Bucky opens his mouth to tell Steve he understands, that he’ll put on his shoes and call a cab and never look back, if that’s what Steve wants.

But then Steve whispers, “Buck…” and pushes Bucky against the door, fists in his shirt. Bucky doesn’t have time to react before Steve is kissing him, rough and needy and Bucky won’t cry with relief, he _won’t._ But he will squeeze his eyes shut and let Steve take him. Together they smell like blood and gunpowder and sweat, but the adrenaline is still coursing through them and Bucky kisses back with ferocity, biting at Steve’s mouth, gripping his hips. Steve threads his fingers through Bucky’s hair and pulls. They kiss so hard that Bucky can barely breathe, all thoughts and feelings obliterated in the moment.

Steve pulls away to catch his breath and say, “Can I fuck you now?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Bucky replies, and Steve hauls him up by the thighs until Bucky’s legs are wrapped around his waist. He carries Bucky to his bedroom and Bucky pulls off his shirt before Steve sets him on the mattress, grinding their hips together and wasting no time. Steve puts his hand between them and thumbs open Bucky’s jeans, hooking his fingers under his boxers. Bucky lifts up and Steve pulls off his pants. 

Even though Bucky’s nakedness is an everyday thing for them, right now feels so much different, because Steve isn’t looking at him like a voyeur, like Bucky is a piece of art in a museum. Bucky can’t believe they did this to each other—this weird kind of objectification that created so much distance between them, each of them so far up on a pedestal for one another that they couldn’t reach each other. It sucks that it took nearly dying to make them realize it, but that’s kind of why they’re perfect for each other, Bucky thinks: they’re both idiots. 

But everything is hands-on now. Steve sits back on his heels and runs his hands down Bucky’s chest to his hips, admiring him. Bucky feels an itch under his skin, a plea right at the edge of his tongue to push Steve faster, harder, more. But he bites it back and revels in Steve’s touch, in his admiration and love.

Steve reaches to a box on the crate by his bed and pulls out some lube. He slicks his fingers up with it and leans over Bucky, kissing him while he circles his entrance and presses slowly in. Bucky moans into Steve’s mouth.

Steve gets him up to three fingers and it feels like it’s taking a lifetime to work him open. He can’t hold the words back any longer when he whispers, “Please,” which is probably the nicest he’s ever been in bed. 

Steve kisses down his throat and says, “Since you asked so nicely,” and fuck, is that all it takes? Being good? No wonder Natasha kept harping it on him. 

Steve pushes off his pants and slicks himself up, holding one of Bucky’s legs up at the back of his knee. Bucky leans up on his elbows to watch Steve slowly sink into him, one thick inch at a time until Bucky is panting and writhing and pushing back on Steve’s cock.

Once Steve has bottomed out, he leans down and kisses Bucky again while rolling his hips shallowly against Bucky, stretching him open further. Bucky scrabbles at his hair, then his shoulders, down to his ass until he’s probably leaving bruises all over Steve’s body with his metal hand and its insistence on pulling Steve deeper inside him.

They build up a rhythm together, mindless, needing, Steve leaning back on his knees and holding Bucky’s legs apart, pounding into him at just the right angle that Bucky has to grip the blankets and squeeze his eyes shut to keep from screaming. He makes an embarrassing amount of noise nonetheless. Steve’s cock is so much bigger and harder and better than the plug, and seeing a shiny sheen of sweat across his beautiful chest while he fucks Bucky with wild abandon is pushing him quickly toward coming completely untouched.

Steve leans back down and says, “Hold on.” Bucky ropes his arms around Steve’s neck and Steve hauls him up onto his lap, making Bucky sink deeper onto him. He cries out with it, and Steve keeps fucking him into oblivion, Bucky bouncing up and down on his lap, barely able to hold on, a litany of moans and curses escaping him. His cock is rutting between their stomachs and he feels like the taut string of a bow.

“I’m—” Bucky begins, but all the words get stopped up in his throat, all his thoughts narrowed down into the singular focus of pleasure. “Can—”

“Go ahead,” Steve says, panting. 

Bucky nearly screams when he comes, pulsing hot between their bodies, coating their stomachs. He can feel himself clench down against Steve, who lets out a desperate low moan. He holds Bucky close to him and rolls his hips in a filthy grind, body shuddering as he comes. Bucky can feel Steve’s cock hard and pulsing inside him; can feel his come drip back out of him as Steve fucks him through his orgasm.

Steve lays Bucky back down on the bed and pulls out, watching himself as he does it, lip bitten between his teeth. He groans at the sight, ruts his softening dick against Bucky’s hole, bumping against the rim as he goes.

Under any other circumstance, Steve would probably leave, get a wet towel and a glass of water, maybe some massage oil if Bucky’s been extra good. There would be a debriefing, and Bucky would have to mumble answers to questions while Steve rubbed all the tension out of his muscles.

Instead, stodgy, strict, overbearing Ex-Senior Agent Steven G. Rogers takes the sheet from his own bed and wipes them both off, then collapses next to Bucky with a heavy, sated exhale.

Bucky should take this opportunity to tease him, but he’s just been fucked into next Tuesday, so he can’t really gather up the mental faculties to do that. They face each other on the bed and Steve runs a hand through Bucky’s hair, continues looking at him with the same adoring reverence he always has, but now Bucky has the wherewithal to acknowledge it for what it is—they’re stupid in love, and nobody’s gonna take that away from them.

“I’m sorry if this is too forward, but...” Steve begins. He pauses, a tiny crack wavering in his unyielding confidence, “would you want to get an apartment in Brooklyn together?”


	21. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's over! Thank you all so much for sticking with this crazy fic to the end. I hope you enjoyed it; I love you all so much and I'm so grateful for your kindness and support. I don't know where I'd be without you. <3

Being a superhero turns out to be kind of exhausting. Bucky almost misses the days of being a regular hero, waking up in the desert with the strange comfort that any morning could very well be his last. He used to think that maybe he would die and be a name on some plaque somewhere, a number in history textbooks. 

But superheroes have fans and costumes and most of their job is to serve as inspiration for others without doing all that much themselves. Bucky has to wear a mask now, because it’s part of his “superhero persona,” or so Pepper Potts told him. He’s the Winter Soldier, something about some patriotic stuff written by Thomas Paine a million years ago, and his “inspiring” story is plastered all over newspapers and magazines, even though he doesn’t think he did anything different than anyone else would do. The point is, he’s now the official sidekick of the Captain—not Captain America anymore, just Cap. (Steve painted the shield silver with a red star in the middle, and put a red star on Bucky’s metal shoulder, which is basically the queer superhero equivalent of His & His t-shirts). The world went ape-shit when he came out of retirement and announced his allegiance with Iron Man. And they—along with Natasha, aka Black Widow, and a host of other colorful individuals—are card-carrying members of something called the Avengers.

Bucky still doesn’t know what they’re avenging. His favorite season has always been summer. Wearing a mask hinders his vision. 

None of it makes any fucking sense.

But to a kid reading about the adventures of the Avengers and how they save the world from mayhem and destruction? It doesn’t need to make sense. People just need to feel safe.

Honestly, other than swapping out expensive suits for kevlar vests, and a steady, smaller paycheck for the occasional very large paycheck, nothing much has changed. Steve gets to be Sunday Steve all the time. Bucky still cooks for them. They have an entire room in their fancy Brooklyn apartment for Steve’s art. 

Steve doesn’t carry a cell phone and neither of them keep a calendar. Bucky only takes the Stark phone that Tony gives him so he can text Natasha. Sometimes Bucky goes to thrift stores and finds items from the thirties and forties to decorate their apartment—typewriters, phones, record players, a lazy susan for their dining room table. Steve always rolls his eyes and tells Bucky he’s being ridiculous, but one time Bucky caught him spinning the lazy susan around while whistling a Glenn Miller tune. 

There are still bad days sometimes. Bucky continues to have nightmares, but Steve is always there to kiss him and hold him and remind him where he is. Steve still dissociates (the cold spells, Bucky used to call them, but after a few therapy sessions, realizes what they really are), but the episodes are shorter now and Bucky knows how to handle them. They both see a therapist every other week. The world may see them as superheroes, but that doesn’t make them immune to the effects of their respective traumas. 

SHIELD is now the shattered remnants of the bureaucratic organization it once was. Peggy informs them that their renewed focus is a passive one; they help when they’re asked and they no longer seek capital growth. Mass layoffs occur in downsizing, but it turns out to be a blessing because many people had been too afraid of the consequences of quitting. Steve and Bucky both sign trade secret agreements like they would leaving a normal company. 

Bucky has to go to trial for the death of Brock Rumlow, but as Steve promised, nothing comes of it. It makes him sick to think that if he’d just been a normal guy without two of the world’s largest powers at his back, he’d probably face serious jail time, or at the very least a bit more legal hassle. He used to trust in the justice system, but now he just feels guilt. During one of the nights he can’t sleep, he looks up Rumlow’s family to find only a second uncle in a nursing home. Bucky thought it would make him feel better, but it just makes him sad, knowing Rumlow had no family, possibly no friends except—he considers, lying awake at night—Pierce and Rollins. He finds himself wondering too often about what Rumlow’s life was like, if he’d ever been happy, if he’d ever been in love. He thinks these things about all the people he’s killed, but he only ever knew the name of one of them. Bucky’s therapist assures him these thoughts are counterproductive, but he can’t help what he imagines in the quiet of the night. 

Working for Stark is predictably a pain in the ass, and it surprises no one. He and Steve argue pretty much constantly, but when Steve makes it home, he always ends up fucking Bucky stupid to let off some steam. Bucky will never get tired of Steve bending him over the kitchen counter in the middle of the day and sliding into his already-prepped hole until Bucky is coming all over the kitchen floor. 

Sometimes Natasha visits and they go out to a nice dinner together, and after, Steve paces the living room, giving them orders in his perfectly pressed suit while Natasha rides Bucky on the couch.

On one very memorable occasion, both Peggy and Angie come to see them to update them on the happenings of SHIELD. After dinner and several drinks, Peggy starts up some kind of kissing competition, clothes are shed, and for the first time, Bucky sees Steve take orders from somebody else. 

Bucky deep-fries a turkey on Thanksgiving and Sam comes home from his deployment to join them. Steve and Sam make fast friends, and they end up going on morning jogs together. Steve and Bucky go back to DC for Christmas and stay in Angie and Peggy’s guest room of their new house, a fixer-upper that Angie takes delight in renovating. Fury, Hill, and Natasha are there too, and over Christmas ham, Peggy and Angie announce that they’re planning to get married in spring. Peggy asks Steve to be her best man and he cries with happiness. And then Bucky nearly cries seeing Steve able to publicly express emotion, and overall it ends up being a total emotional mess but also the best Christmas of Bucky’s life.

About six months after they move to Brooklyn, Bucky’s birthday comes up. He hasn’t mentioned it at all to Steve because he’s really not into the whole birthday-celebration thing, which is the inevitable residual effect of being the oldest of four siblings. 

But, Steve being Steve, the file-memorizing nerd he is (like Bucky is one to talk—the SRM was his bible for nearly a year), surprises Bucky by leaving a gift on the dining room table along with a box of pastries from Bucky’s favorite bakery. The note beside it reads:  _ Happy birthday! Stark picked me up for a meeting but I’ll be back by 5. Be really careful with the gift. We should probably wait until I get home to use it. Thank you for being the best boyfriend/superhero sidekick in the world. I love you! —SGR  _

_ PS Yes Stark helped me with the gift but he didn’t ask any questions thank God. _

Bucky shoves a chocolate croissant in his face before ripping open the silver wrapping of the package. Underneath it is a plain cardboard box, which Bucky opens to find—

He tilts his head. He’s not really sure what it is. He picks up a contraption with two circles made of a strong kind of metal. There are a couple buttons. The first one Bucky presses makes the contraption break in half between the two circles. He brings the parts back together and they re-lock like a magnet. He presses the second button and the circles slide open. 

Bucky’s eyes go wide. He sets it down and takes a picture of it to send Natasha.

_ B: STEVE GOT ME FANCY HANDCUFFS I CANT BREAK _

_ N: FINALLY. And hey, happy birthday. :) _

_ B: Thanks! _

A telepathic blip of dread goes off in his brain while he watches the little ellipses bubble rise and fall. He continues eating his croissant as he waits.

_ N: So. I hate to be the bearer of bad news… _

Bucky types back with greasy fingers, _But youre gonna do it anyway_

_ N: Pierce gets out of prison today. _

_ B: So? _

_ N: So I’m just letting you know. _

_ B: What happens now? _

_ N: Fury’s keeping an eye on him (pun only kind of intended). _

_ B: Maybe its me but I think shield + the avengers can take on one misguided old man esp since hes kinda powerless now _

_ N: Yeah, I think so too.  _

_ B: So well be ok _

_ N: We will. :) _

By five, Bucky is kneeling by the door in anticipation, wearing a black leather collar Steve bought him on their one-year anniversary, a pair of lacy black underwear, and the birthday cuffs on his wrists, separated but ready.

When Steve opens the door and gets an eyeful, he says, “Jesus, Buck, it’s your birthday, not mine.”

Bucky looks up at him, features trained into innocence. “Just thought I’d thank you properly is all.”

“You haven’t seen the best part yet,” Steve says as he sets his briefcase down and tosses his keys in the bowl by the door. He doesn’t wear a suit anymore, but he does prefer the whole khakis-and-button-downs look. It’s so fucking wholesome that it circles all the way around to hotness because he wears it to scene, too; a boy scout like that should never say some of the depraved shit that comes out of Steve’s mouth when they’re fucking.

“There’s more?”

“C’mon.” Steve gestures to the art room and Bucky follows him.

They stop in the middle of the room, where a flat, steel bar is hanging from the ceiling. Bucky has never noticed it before, or if he has, he probably thought it was some abstract art piece that he was too dumb to understand.

“What am I looking at?” he asks.

Steve smiles at him, his favorite dark smile that, coupled with the whole 1950s suburban dad look, pushes all of Bucky’s buttons. He takes Bucky’s flesh hand and guides it to the plate, where it promptly locks in place via an incredibly strong magnet. 

“Whoa,” Bucky says, trying to pry his arm off. It won’t budge. It’s amazing. 

“Want to try the other one?”

“Absolutely.”

Steve takes his other hand and puts it on the bar. The magnet has no effect on his metal arm at all. He uses all his strength to try and pry it off, but he’s trapped, his arms stretched above his head, facing Steve. He tests the strength of it by doing a pull-up. It holds, and he drops back down. His heels can’t touch the floor, just the balls of his feet, and he teeters slightly off-balance. The dull orange sunset cascades through the loft windows. The whole city could look in on them, could see Bucky in nothing but women’s underwear and a collar splayed open and restrained. Maybe to some people, the thought would make them nervous, especially as famous as Bucky and Steve are nowadays, but to Bucky it’s just thrilling, the thought of being watched while he lets Steve have his way with him.

As he continues inspecting it, he asks, “What’s it made of that I can’t break it?”

“Vibranium.”

Bucky stares at Steve, eyes wide. “Please don’t tell me you melted your shield for this.”

“I mean, I’d appreciate the symbolism, but I...called in a favor is all.”

“Did Stark have any idea what he was making?” 

“Surprisingly no, but I think Banner may have figured it out eventually.”

“How does it unlock?”

“A button on the side turns off the magnet,” Steve replies. “But I figure since we’re already here…” he trails off, lets his gaze shift to Bucky’s lips, and leans in for the sweetest kiss imaginable from somebody who built an inconspicuous BDSM dungeon in an art loft. It leaves Bucky with just a taste, and when Steve pulls away, Bucky chases after him, but his movement is limited. Steve walks out of his range with a smile on his face.

“Legs?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, a little breathless, heart pounding with excitement. To anyone else, it wouldn’t seem like a big deal. _Your boyfriend bought you handcuffs you can’t break. So?_

But that’s why it’s the absolute perfect gift. In scene, Bucky can never let go completely, because if he does, he’ll either break the restraints or have to expend too much mental power to avoid breaking them. Trust is such an important thing—he wants to trust Steve wholly, wants to give his body and himself over to him completely, and he hasn’t been able to before now. The only escape should ever be a single word, and otherwise he wants to be at the mercy of Steve.

Steve takes a spreader bar from its mostly concealed place in the closet and puts each of Bucky’s ankles in the cuffs. The result is essentially a minimalistic St. Andrew’s Cross, and Steve steps back to admire Bucky, mostly naked and spread apart to do with what he will.

A hunger hides behind Steve’s eyes at the sight, biting his lip between his teeth, the dull red flush on his cheeks he gets whenever he’s turned on. 

He grabs Bucky by the back of the neck and kisses him hard, full of the kind of heat that makes Bucky’s knees weak. Steve likes biting Bucky’s lower lip until it swells, likes sucking it until it bruises because then he can admire his handiwork the next day. He likes gripping Bucky’s long hair and pulling on it, contorting his body back until he’s pliant under Steve’s ministrations. 

When Steve pulls away, he mutters, “Happy birthday, Buck.” And Jesus, Bucky is glad he’s tied up because his legs have nearly given out on him. The kiss made him so hard that he can feel the lace digging into his swollen cock, the tip of it peeking out the top of the elastic.

Steve takes a step back. “Any requests?”

Bucky is so fucking turned on that his voice sounds rough even to him. “Use me.”

The tips of Steve’s ears turn as red as his holier-than-thou button-up cardigan that’s so pristine it could pass for stylish hipster irony. “Ready when you are,” he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet like it’s taking all his self-control not to start doing whatever it is he has planned.

Bucky revels in that look for a minute, the excitement in Steve’s expression that he’s training into his bossy face. Or, Bucky thinks, maybe he has to train his face to be not-bossy, and this is just his natural expression: hungry, demanding, predatory.

“Green,” Bucky says, because he can’t wait another fucking second.

Steve takes a crop out of an innocent-looking box of art supplies—when did he buy a crop? They have a paddle and a flogger in the bedroom, but the crop is new. This is the best birthday ever.

Steve inspects it for a moment before putting it between Bucky’s legs and lightly slapping his inner thigh with it. He flicks his wrist and slaps the other thigh. 

“Not really the season for mosquitoes,” Bucky says. “Or are you trying to hurt me?”

One corner of Steve’s mouth quirks up and he lifts the crop to Bucky’s face, cracks it across his cheek so that it stings so beautifully that Bucky can feel his cock pulse with it. A residual heat follows, a red mark that probably won’t fade until tomorrow morning. Every inch of his body flushes hot with anticipation.

It shuts Bucky up. For now.

Steve circles around Bucky and continually slaps his thighs as he goes, slightly harder with each strike until it genuinely starts to hurt a little. The crop is different than the paddle and flogger—the pain is sharp, concise. It’s a new kind of pain, and that means Bucky has a new reaction to it. Any new feeling gets him off like a rocket, which pretty much makes him insatiable.

Steve starts putting some strength into his slaps, and they hurt so bad that Bucky’s breathing goes uneven. He can space out when pain is steady and rhythmic, but when Steve trips him up like this, it forces Bucky to stay present. And when Bucky is present, he’s mouthy.

“Is there a breeze in here?” Bucky asks. “I keep feeling this annoying tickling sensation.”

In retaliation, Steve grips the back of Bucky’s panties and pulls them upward, taut so they drag against his asshole and dig into his balls. Bucky hisses and jerks upward on his toes, his bound wrists taking all of his weight as he falls forward.

His ass and thighs are throbbing with all the welts from the crop. The elastic of his underwear is dragging against his cock every time his muscles twitch. He’s so hard that his hips start thrusting against the lace, just for friction, for relief. His gut feels like driving down a steep hill too quickly, balanced with tension and excitement.

“That all you got, Rogers?” Bucky continues. “Gonna take me out for a nice dinner and massage my feet while you’re at it?”

Steve tosses the crop to the side and sidles up behind Bucky, slotting his hand between Bucky’s on the magnetic bar. No point of their bodies are touching, which is the worst pain of all, just heat against Bucky’s back, Steve still fully clothed where Bucky is nearly naked and completely exposed.

“Got a problem, Sergeant?” Steve asks, so calm his voice borders on complacent. His breath is hot on Bucky’s neck, and Bucky has to close his eyes to keep from giving himself away, from shifting the single inch backward it would take for their bodies to press together.

“No, sir. Just thought you’d bring your A-game, considering it’s my birthday and all.”

Steve steps away and stops at a table to pick up a pair of scissors before rounding on Bucky again. “Hope these weren’t your favorite.” He pulls the elastic of Bucky’s underwear, careful not to touch him, and cuts the fabric down the length of Bucky’s hip. The metal of the scissors slide cold against Bucky’s skin and make him shiver. Steve does it to the other side until he can pull the tattered fabric away.

Bucky scoffs. “Is that all you—”

Steve balls up Bucky’s underwear and shoves it in his mouth. He taps the side of Bucky’s face and says, “Shut up, Sergeant.”

Bucky would come up with a flippant retort, but his mouth is full of lace that tastes like him. It’s a genius double punishment: no more friction against his cock, no more mouthiness. 

While Steve is in front of him, he licks one of his thumbs and rolls it around Bucky’s nipple—one single, agonizing point of wet contact. It’s unfairly effective. Bucky finally cracks, moans muffled around his makeshift gag. He can feel a drop of precome leak out of his cock and dribble down his balls.

Bucky can’t talk. He can’t move. They’ve barely gotten started and he’s already dangerously close to blowing his load the second Steve decides to touch him, which he might not. He might leave Bucky like this for hours, strung-out on the edge until he’s delirious with it.

Steve circles around Bucky again, settles behind him and slides a wet thumb down Bucky’s ass and against his hole. He rubs around it slowly, and reaches in front of Bucky to tweak at the same nipple as before. Two points of contact, the skin of his ass and thighs still burning, cock hanging heavy and hard between his legs. 

“See,” Steve begins, “this is easy. You talk big but all I gotta do is touch you in a couple spots and I have you whimpering. And then all I have to do is—” he abruptly stops and pulls away. Zero points touching, air cool against the welts of his ass.

There had been such little contact before, but the sudden lack of it is shocking. It stings worse than the crop. Bucky whines against the gag, body writhing in his restraints.

“What was that about my A-game again?” 

Bucky mumbles something unintelligible.  _ Fuck you, Rogers. _

“Sorry, missed that,” Steve replies. 

Bucky hears a thunk he can’t decipher—knees on hardwood, maybe—and then Steve’s hands are kneading Bucky’s asscheeks, squeezing the welts so that it’s simultaneously relieving and more painful. Steve brings his hand down hard against Bucky’s ass, and Bucky yelps.

He spreads Bucky’s cheeks apart and Bucky can feel Steve’s lips pepper kisses near his thumbs, slowly making his way to the center until the tip of his tongue grazes Bucky’s rim.

Bucky shouts, body jerking at a single sensation. It’s pathetic, really, how easy Steve can do this, like playing an instrument.

Steve licks again, longer this time, swirling the tip of his tongue around. Bucky can feel it acutely, every tiny motion, eyes squeezed shut out of necessity. It’s a small victory when Steve groans into his ass. Steve probably lost control, dropped his carefully constructed facade at the heady notion of being able to eat Bucky out while he’s fully restrained for the first time in their relationship.

Steve laps against his hole, pressing in on occasion. Bucky thinks he might die. Steve starts fucking him with his tongue, in and out, deeper and deeper, and all Bucky can do is whimper pitifully around his gag and hang on to his restraints. He pushes back against Steve’s face and ruts against him. Steve has to bring his hands up and steady Bucky’s hips. He’s sloppy with it, too, where he’s normally neat with everything else. Bucky can feel saliva trail down, the gentle scrape of teeth on occasion, the reverberation of Steve’s voice as he lets out soft moans.

Bucky is breathing so hard he has to forcibly steady himself not to hyperventilate. If a breeze grazed his dick he would come. 

Steve pulls away and slaps Bucky’s hole with two fingers. Bucky hisses at the wet, sharp sting of it, but the noise comes out garbled against his underwear. This is the point where, were he not gagged, he’d beg for Steve to fuck him. Or hit him. Or do anything but keep him on the edge like this. A sheen of sweat covers his body, and his legs are straining and trembling to hold him up.

Thankfully, this is also the point where Steve’s patience begins to ebb too. He stands up and tells Bucky, “You’re gonna be quiet while I fuck you, right? Gonna be a good boy for once?”

Bucky is so pitifully desperate that he nods. As a reward, Steve slots his body behind Bucky’s and slips the tip of his finger into his ass. It feels so good Bucky wants to scream, but he bites down onto the soggy fabric in his mouth and stays quiet.

“Good boy,” Steve coos, running his other hand through Bucky’s hair.

He steps away from Bucky to get the lube. When he returns, Steve’s finger slides into him easy. 

“Fuck you open so many times, and you’re always still so tight for me,” Steve whispers in his ear, and Bucky can hear the thinness of his voice, as close to breaking as Bucky is.

He slides a second finger in and scissors Bucky open. The burn is familiar and sweet. Bucky pushes back on Steve’s hand with his limited range of motion, and Steve hurries to add a third finger. It almost hurts, but Bucky is too turned on to care. Steve fucks Bucky’s hole in and out, so soaked with lube it makes a sloshing sound, and when Bucky is prepped to Steve’s standards, he carefully removes his fingers.

Bucky feels gaping and empty, but the sound of a fly zipper is hopeful. Steve wastes no time slicking himself up and pressing the blunt head of his cock against Bucky’s rim. He pushes inside, spreading Bucky open wider, and Bucky lets out a low groan.

Steve pulls out all the way. Bucky whines.

“I thought you agreed to be good,” Steve says, followed by a little slap against his ass. 

Bucky gasps and nods vigorously because he can’t apologize. Steve pushes back in, and bottoms out in one long, slow motion.

He grips Bucky’s hips and stays there, still. Bucky can feel the goddamn fabric of his pressed khakis against his ass, the soft wool of the sweater against his back. Steve places a gentle kiss at the juncture of Bucky’s shoulder and neck, below his collar—a scene break, so very Steve Rogers of him. “Good?” he asks, dragging his lips an inch down Bucky’s neck, breathing him in. Sometimes Bucky can feel Steve’s stupid-in-loveness hit him in waves, like right now. Bucky gets drunk on it.

He nods. Steve pulls out and pushes back in. He does it again, harder this time, snapping his hips. It takes all of three thrusts until Steve starts continually pressing into Bucky’s prostate. Bruises form at Bucky’s hips from where Steve is gripping him. His belt buckle clatters as he thrusts, and he speeds up to the point where he’s pounding Bucky mercilessly.

At some point, Bucky’s legs give out. Steve holds him up, an arm around his chest and a hand to steady his hips. 

And here...here is where the blessed restraints come in. Normally Bucky would thrash around and lose himself and break out of whatever’s holding him. Now, though, Bucky goes to that blissful zen space knowing nothing he does can strip him of this moment. 

Steve uses one hand to grip Bucky’s hair and pull. Bucky’s body is bowed back, taut and tight. He has no control over himself anymore. Drool is running down his chin. None of his muscles are tensed in the slightest. He’s hanging on only at the points where Steve is touching him, burning him like a brand, keeping him tethered to reality while Steve uses his body like a toy.

“Fuck,” Steve grits out, and Bucky will never get tired of hearing Steve Rogers curse. “Need you to come untouched for me, baby,” he adds, and  _ fuck _ , he doesn’t pull out the ‘baby’ until he’s too close to be self-conscious about it. One day Bucky will get him to be less shy about it, maybe if he slips a ‘daddy’ in to get the ball rolling, to get a rise out of him and see what comes of it. Punishment, surely. Hopefully.

Bucky can feel his body tense up all over against his will, like there’s a direct line between Steve’s words and Bucky’s body. A burning heat pools up at the pit of his gut, his vision goes white around the edges.

“C’mon, baby, come for me,” Steve commands, and with one last deep thrust, Bucky comes so hard he screams, sound muffled in his gag, all over the floor of Steve’s nice art room.

“Fuck. Oh  _ fuck _ ,” Steve says, and Bucky can feel Steve’s cock throb wide inside of him, continually fucking into Bucky’s limp body. He pulls Bucky’s hair back and bites Bucky’s shoulder, his neck, breaks the scene entirely to murmur, “I love you. Fuck I love you,” over and over again, grinding shallow into Bucky’s ass.

Steve groans against the sweaty nape of Bucky’s neck when he comes, cock throbbing, filling Bucky up completely, searing hot inside of him. 

And because Steve Rogers is the fucking love of Bucky’s life, he pulls out and immediately drops to his knees again, spreading Bucky’s ass apart to watch the come drip out of him. He licks a droplet from Bucky’s balls all the way up to his ass.

He moans while he eats Bucky out, probably already hard again and ready to go for round two.

Bucky can’t do anything but hang on to the metal bar and heave breaths and groan around his gag. 

When he’s done, Bucky feels beyond well-fucked, body aching like he just ran a marathon. Steve unlocks the spreader bar and guides Bucky’s feet out of it, then stands up and presses the button to unmagnetize the bar. Bucky falls, but Steve scoops him up gracefully, bridal style.

He lets Steve carry him into their bedroom. On the way, he takes the underwear out of his mouth and tosses it somewhere in the hallway. 

Aftercare is always kind of a blur. It’s the only time he ever feels shy, letting Steve dote on him like he’s some kind of princess. Steve places him on the bed and cleans him up, takes off his collar, leaving gentle kisses in the wake of the warm towel. He says things like, “So beautiful,” and “So good for me,” and, “Love you so much,” tiny recitations of praising poetry that sink into Bucky’s skin and settle inside him, each word a single stitch in the gradual process of sewing all of Bucky’s broken pieces back together. 

He sleepily watches as Steve takes off his dorky sweater, the t-shirt underneath. He slides out of his pants and socks and underwear and guides Bucky to his stomach, then he gets out Bucky’s favorite lavender-scented oil and spends an eternity working out all the knots of his muscles, smoothing out the welts on his ass. Bucky moans into the pillow when Steve rocks his still-hard cock against Bucky’s swollen, slicked hole, a smooth back and forth motion that feels so good Bucky could probably get it up again himself if he weren’t so worn out. Steve presses into him while he works, not to get off, just to feel connected, complete. He fucks into him with the rhythm of Bucky’s breathing, sweet and slow and easy.

Once Bucky is thoroughly fucked and massaged, Steve settles next to him on the bed and kisses him gently on the lips. He tastes like toothpaste because he’s a gentleman enough to brush his fucking teeth after. He swipes away a lock of Bucky’s hair and tucks it behind his ear.

“I should make dinner,” Steve says.

Bucky raises his eyebrows and opens one eye to peer at him. “You’re gonna make dinner?”

“What? I can cook.”

“You grew up in the depression. You can boil potatoes and put cereal in milk.”

“I’m not totally helpless. I can also spread peanut butter on toast.”

Bucky settles closer to Steve, head tucked under his chin. “Let’s nap, and then we can make something.”

“Okay, but I do all the heavy lifting,” Steve replies, wrapping his big arms around Bucky. “You just sit there looking pretty and telling me what to do.”

They have a spring wedding to prepare for. An ex-boss sort-of villain who needs keeping track of. A world to constantly save. They have each other and the rest of their lives, too. As Bucky starts to drift off, he mutters, “Boss around Steve Rogers? I’d never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm keeping my asksgtbarnes blog open if you'd like to chat with Bucky, Nat, or Steve!
> 
> Or feel free to come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.bettydays.tumblr.com) or [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/betty_days).


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